Last night I went to one of the poetry groups that I am a member of and read a piece that I had written a while ago. This morning on the way to one of the writer’s groups that I am a member of, my mom told me that she did not understand the last section of the piece, that it got off track, to her. I looked at it again and she was right. I was not in a great mood when I wrote it and did not take too much time, and I just wrote down what I was thinking.

This is the poem as I currently have it, I might still change a couple of things, not sure yet:

You know me

Complaining

I am the diatribe

The one you so despise

I contain a heart of gold

Yet you fail to look past the mold

Because

You are the cowardice

Aftaid

Of what?

That’s what they say

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