A childhood was wasted
Trying to be loved by a father;
A father for whom
Nothing was ever enough.
So much youth, so much time,
Gone so quickly,
Replaced with a wisdom
Beyond the years of its owner,
An identity
Which is neither here nor there,
Merely tailored to the father's
Fleeting interests,
Desperate
To be treasured,
Wounded
By his cruelty.
Now, when they say "jump",
I no longer respond with "how high?".
My childhood has been and gone,
As has my desire to please, to compete,
To fight, to be the best.
I need no title, no approval,
No ribbon nor award -
I am simply what I am.
I am not trying to be my father's pride and joy,
For that is something nobody could ever be.
I am merely concentrating on not becoming my father:
On seeing the beauty in every passing face,
Learning to trust
And love unconditionally.
YOU ARE READING
Refraction.
PoetrySo many aspects, colours and themes make up our experiences. Truly, is anything entirely good or entirely bad? Upon weighing up the positives and negatives of the past, do we not admit that even tragedy is- in a twisted sort of way- advantageous? O...
