Letter to My Unborn Son

This is a letter to my unborn son

So you’ll be a better man, one whom

I have never been. And if too soon

I die. May shine your future sun

Firstly, wit can be the worst thing

Pride can make a prince a pauper

Wisdom’s like an accent, listen

Cause it don’t always talk proper

Nonetheless, there are those

Who prey upon the shadows

Of folks in constant battles.

Know this my boy, good men do not

Sell courses to the addled.

So when life’s river rapids

Catch you without a paddle

You’ll find the keenest crafted

Come from libraries and chapels

And as for women, here’s some advice

You’d be forgiven, if you failed to look

A beauty in her eye; but don’t be hooked

Allure may make a face into a vice.

And when lust becomes a reflex,

The soul spits up in reflux—

Yes, ours is a line often astray,

Praying to a poppy shrine,

My father went insane.

I went half, though my demons

They were uniquely mine.

Hoarding pixels in my brain,

Collecting flesh as if my tithe,

Spending hours in pursuit

Of seconds. Seconds making me dilute

Years of my life.

All addictions are the same

Thus, on drugs I’ll be plain:

Life asks of you no ticket

The fare’s long been paid.

Ambition too may be abused

Beware of working late 

Many men sleepwalk through life

Because of dreams that do not wake,

Fishing for the future,

Using the present just as bait!

Don’t be that freedom-chasing man

Failing to understand:

A bird does not feel free

If it can never land.

Sometimes the dreams of youth

Provide only the proof

We aren’t heroes on a mission, “We”

Rather are vessels of a vision

Avatar of the cosmos bidden

To keep creation lit.

And sometimes that means

The cosmos see it fit,

To build itself a roof. Beneath

This father expectant sits.