You know me
Challenging
I am the diatribe
The one you so despise
You call it complaining
A futile act in your eyes
I contain a heart of gold
Yet, you fail to look past the mold
Because
You are the cowardice

Afraid
Of what?
I have to ask
Afraid of what
Afraid
Of your son
For being gay?

Afraid
You ask, "Who made you this way?"
Blame it on the diatribe
The one who "complains"
Knock her down
You know what she'll say?

Listen to your son, man
Look into his eyes
He is just the same as you
Weary of disguise
Afraid of the stranger he feels he must become
Searching for acceptance
Realizing, there may be none

He has enough "friends"
That pat him on the back
Pretending they don't see

Because he's still not ready
To let his heart be free

This is your job
To comfort and accept
Not to question
Not to ruin
Or for you to deflect

Who made him this way?
You, not me

Here we are
Tension not dissolved
Diatribe and cowardice
The question still unsolved

The subject of our debate remains

Afraid to live
Afraid to love
Afraid to be himself because
You are the cowardice

Afraid of what?
Afraid of your son for being gay
Afraid, he asks
"Who made me this way?"