Letter written in fetters - 6

Dear son,
              Thanks for being patient with me
              Though I feel that I am ignored
              As being too antiquated and irrelevant to your life
              Why would I interrogate Pinocchio?
              It is hopeless to find anything in me to salvage
              My last stroke of genius
              Was getting my bid to father you accepted.
              I am just so frustrated
              How could everything I said or did just went over your head
              If you look like me and walk and talk like me
              Why can't you understand like me?
              O forgive me, I have been too silent these years
              To adopt the discourse of noise effectively now
              Would it matter if I say I ws protecting you from bias and from tears
              When a father has nothing left, he still feels he must protect his love ones
              He still worry that the minotaur may harm one more child.
              I know the pain of that lost
              It haunts me deeply since your brother died; it changed me
              I use to be just vulnerable and afraid of risk, now I am impotent.
              My only weapon left is prayer, but it makes me uncomfortable
              To think of an argument with God as a weapon.

              This letter you ask, what is its purpose
              Why can't two grown men meet and talk?
              Meet? You have no time for me, I do not wear mascara
              I cannot provoke your hormones to rebel against your judgment
              I suddenly realize every conversation needs a drop of love to begin it.
              I am neither judging your feelings nor confessing mine
              You see, dear son, feelings for you is discontent of emotion
              Love for me is a self so given it is nothing but sacrifice
              This time the son has carved the father
              Out of his image
              And whittled him until the wood cries for joy.
              Any which way I look at it
              A knife in the hand is indicative of sacrifice
              And redemption is a long way to the death of God.
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Submitted on July 05, 2013

Modified on March 05, 2023

1:39 min read

Quick analysis:

Closest metre Iambic hexameter
Characters 2,131
Words 330
Stanzas 2
Stanza Lengths 22, 14

David Smalling

I have been writing poems since I was 12 years; but writing had been my blanket for loneliness since age 11. My father died when I was 13 and poetry was my therapy for pain since then. Only I wanted the world to think, feel, laugh, but not cry. I had been forgotten in the grief of my father's death because everyone else needed the consolation I did not get. I became the even more the withdrawn loner, and saw a world more aggressively hostile. Books became my better friend and drove me deeper into academic seclusion. I wrote thousands of poems everywhere: on rocks, trees, sand, and all over house and school - this was how I interrogate the world, and how I weep alone. Poetry was my quest and comfort. I trusted paper and pen and spoke my truths to them above all else. Yes, I am graduate, a business major, a science major, an humanities major ... still searching for consolation, love, security, and joy obtained in poetry. Then again Jamaica is such an ideal place to live as a poet; the history and memories, juxtaposed against the world, is pure inspiration. more…

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