Dear Son,
When you become a man
donning an elongated frame,
Graced with the view of a maturing sapling,
know that there is much more to see.
Recognize the frailty in your own perception
of what is real
what is not
and of what is yours to hold.
There will come a time my son
where you will want to hold a woman
as if she is your own.
Do not take her story
and make it yours.
There are some things
destined to be s e p a r a t e
no matter how close they are together.
Promise me,
you will never have the audacity
to turn her into a poem.
Her breasts, a swelling stanza
Her brokenness, a hungry metaphor
Her smile, a simile
Her self- esteem an opening line
Do not ever rely on another’s body
another’s pain
another’s laughter
to make your meaning for you.
Dig deep my son.
Examine roots at their furthest depths.
Be shaped by the experience of having loved and lost,
and write from there.
Do not create from borrowed experiences
Live your own.
Gain insight from what the world has to offer,
Break open in front of a rising sun
Feel the riddled presence of death
Learn to pray in different tongues
Set your feet in the waters of many seas
Laugh from the deepest place in your belly
Cry from that place too
Live my son
Live
And write from that place
ifieverstoploving 