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A Poem about a man who writes a poem to his unborn son |
| A letter to my son; I apologize that you were never born. But this world is so damn cold, not even my love could keep you warm. In this place, people make war in the name of religion. They shout Ji Had and then blow innocent victims into smithereens. A woman drowns her babies in the middle of a lake—for the love of a man—for Heaven’s sake! Fathers kill their famous sons; you have to ask yourself “What’s Going On?” Snipers lurk silently in the dark. Somebody’s not coming home from the grocery mart. Parents still leave their guns carelessly unlocked again, and again, and again. It’s no wonder some kids never live to see ten. A gambler leaves a little-one locked in the car, as he reaches for the handle, death is not far. Schools have become safe havens for the satanic, boom, boom, boom now watch the panic. A husband murders his wife, and then cries foul, so much love she had to offer her child. And if you don’t like the color of my skin, I’ll tell you what, why don’t you just drag me from the back of your pickup truck. I know there’s a God, and I know he has a plan. I just have trouble seeing it from where I stand. Some people dare to dream; they hope the world will live as one then reality steps in and another dreamer is done. Some say I’m just bitter, and they point to all that’s good. You might stand a chance if you’re born in Mr. Roger’s neighborhood. And so my son, that’s why I never sent for you, but there’s one thing I beg of you. Please tell your sister that I miss and love her too. Love, Daddy. |
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