Unplaced Youth

My father would

prefer to see

me in a band,

touring across the world,

telling his friends

of my success.

I prefer to write 

in a dimly lit

room;

alone with the

past,

alone with the

present.

My father 

hates the books

I read,

hates the poets

I fall hopelessly 

in love with,

hates the way

I pace,

unable to sit

and read the classics

for what they are,

art.

When I told him,

when I threw my un-played guitar

onto the fire

and told him, writing

was my only desire;

he cried,

not on the outside 

but within.

Now, when I see him,

he does not ask after

my latest verse

but tells me of his friends son

who is in a band

and travelling the world.

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