I hear your son likes boys
In a way you don't approve;
But it's how he is wired,
Through and through.

You caught your son kissing boys,
And you told him he's disgusting;
Who knew in 2015,
Homophobia would be a thing.

Your son likes boys,
That he cannot change;
So what he kisses boys,
Is that so strange?

There are a million things
Your son could be,
Don't you think,
Don't you agree?

It's up to you, break his wings
Or let him fly;
Think about what you want to accomplish
Before you die.

Do you wish to care for him,
Mold him into his best version;
Or make him your toy,
And use lies as immersion?

I watched you as
you tore apart
my countless journals of poems
You continuously told me that
writing poetry was a waste
of what I could be
doing.

You read each poem
before you tore them
and I wish I had seen
compassion grow in your eyes
but only hatred did.

Countless poems about you
about her
about him
about myself
about father
about the world
and all I heard was
"These are all pitiful."

It was well noted that I wouldn't
show you another of my poems
just incase you hated those too
and then I would be here
watching as the compassion drains from
your warm brown eyes and hatred
grows in them