I read my poems to you and you got mad.
Why?
Do you not like the truth?
It’s just my life as youth.
Maybe you know how I feel just you don’t want to agree, only want to deny.
Why?
The truth was only a sliver told.
The rest should naturally unfold.
Did you not like what I said about you and mommy?
Why?
You didn’t tell her you loved her. Right?
Your madness was just your hidden fright.
How about my story of neglect? You like when inside I cry.
Why?
Do you love me?
Mommy would tell me she loved me. Right?
Bubby read my poem. He felt what I felt.
Why?
Because he cares for me.
Please, listen to me.
You always wonder why I don’t tell you what I feel.
Don’t ask why, Daddy. I will freely answer:
Your lack of understanding; {I’m mature and responsible}
Your forceful demanding; {I won’t tell you.}
Your pessimist girlfriend; {Why does she do that?}
Your prejudice and judgements; {I’m pansexual...}
You don’t know me, Daddy. {Leave me alone!}