Here’s a poem I just wrote yesterday actually. Rhyming isn’t usually something I do well, but I feel this one came flowing out pretty decent!
Until I was old enough
To have true insight,
My father was perfect,
Us together—just right.
Reflecting on it now,
My childhood was a lie.
It was Mother who was there for me,
Not Dad, when I cried.
Where was this man,
When I was too weak to stand?
It was Mother next to me,
Holding my hand.
The best memory I have
Is a crinkled photograph now.
My cousin and I,
Putting on a play for Father Cow.
We’re performing our hearts out,
Thinking he’s watching intently.
The basketball game on TV
Is more important evidently.
Dad is well-liked by his colleagues,
As they don’t know his true self.
“My life is an open book,” he says;
But it sits closed, on the shelf.
I’m grateful to have him in my life.
My dearest friend doesn’t have the pleasure
Of having a father present,
And falsified memories to treasure.