I-V

One night I was writing and said...

 

I.

If I could be the wetness of your lips, maybe that would satisfy the desire to feel your breath upon my face as you would kiss me goodnight. Or what if I were the silent shadow on your pillow as you slept in peace? I would be pleased to be anything that brings me closer and closer and closer to you.

 

II.

How could it be? This feeling that so lavishly oozes throughout my soul. Waiting to be released at the proper time, but oh so divine, it feels to be in love with you.

 

 

III.

Can you see? Is this really for real…  The wanting, waiting, needing, panting for even the slightest glimpse of hope that, he’s looking my way.

 

Oh, did he see me staring, wondering, shamefully blissful to notice the way his shirt catches that curve in his back that produces the swagger that has me so hypnotized. He must realize, my eyes, watching his. Can he even see, me? How dare the sun fade away when I’m just beginning to smile? Did he notice? 

 

IV.

Yesteryear, yesterday, what hope has loves gone away? The missing child, the ailing body, who can bear this pain? The pain of not knowing if he’s really there, or does he even care? Someone come to his rescue. He said he cried last night, but now, the tears are far gone away, and he promises that they are surely here to stay.

 

Stay away for strangers my mother told us. But what if the stranger is her? Is it fair to live in a life where the only confusion is about, it’s about me? Who my father is, where is he, and why did he go? 

 

Was it her or was it me? Never again shall they see me cry.

 

 Time passes…I can’t wait. I can’t wait til he sees me now. I’m all grown up. I have my family, my car, my wife, and a dog. He’ll surely stay now. He must be so proud. Proud of me, because I have everything he thought he should have. And where did he go this time?

 

Dang, it was true. I’m really not his son. 

 

 

V.

 

Doesn’t a father suppose to love his son? What about even like his son? I thought males producing males was the epitome of the American dream, the American way or whatever the hell they say these days. Antagonists claim they hear my cry. But the real death bleating in the streets of Harlem, of Detroit, of Atlanta, from Dallas and everywhere in between is, “Where is my Father?” Can I see him now, can I tell him just how grown up I really am? Yet again, on our streets, we’re forced to raise another American b*****d.

 

How could this be? With welfare, the invention and extinction of Affirmative Action, how could America have so many b******s? The sad thing is, my father is still looking for his real father.

 

Where is a man to go without a home? For his heart that is… do you hear the cry?

 

Bleating, bleating, like sheep, like blood, am I my brother’s keeper? Do I too carry the pain, the weight, the torture that comes from not knowing who my Father is?

 

Am I my father’s son?