You are everything I am, but not.
I write the story,
you are the plot.
A reflection of my DNA
some ways alike,
others foreign…far away.
I pull up my chair to take a closer look,
I can read you like a well known book,
many segments and chapters have created thee….
many pages ripped out, so you’re not JUST like me.
No, not speaking ill,
neither being modest,
But we thrive in life, when we are most honest.
I kissed your forehead and caressed your hair,
and thought; “How life can be unfair.”
I finally have you, like I prayed for…..
but we share a struggle that I can’t ignore.
When I am weary,
for you it’s scary.
When I am mad,
I take away the joy you had.
When I am weak,
you are confused..
I am supposed to be your muse…..
to live the dreams that you artistically create,
my pain, my son, will not be your fate.
Statistic is just another word, to unethically place,
no matter what you’ve heard.
you are everything that I aspire to be,
an unsmudged living proof,
that clarity in life is free.