Cold scales abraze my once soft flesh,
An egg that never hatched.
Now basking under hell's sun is hell's son
Parents tell me "do better,
You don't want to go to hell...son."
It was your actions that made me who I am-
Stranded her calf for the carnivores,
I ran from that world,
Crawled into a hole;
My parents beckon for me to come out,
Why is it hard for me to do so?
As if that dark place has a vicegrip
Around my waist...a hug;
I feel comfort here.
And I dip my heart into that fear
Only to withdraw again
But my fearless fingers
Reach out with the bravado of a warrior
Grab a sword and slice through that fear
With a thousand words-
A thousand words could never say to you in person,
You call yourself my parents,
As that is what you are...technically.
But of what of that void in my spirits past
That all your love and care could never fill,
That created me but will never know me
As well as God has created me and knows me.
I heard in a poem, a boy asks his father, "what is a miracle?"
The father replies to the boy, "you are."
Wish I could ask that invisible man
And my lost mother...was I not a miracle to you?
This poem is about: