Sunday, October 14, 2007


Not a father, but a dad.
I think sometimes
You take this act of charity too seriously.
Maybe this bastard child
Would rather be
A bastard child
Than remain the object of a love that hurts:
Unconditional, unwarranted…
Your kind of love,
Is the catalyst for war
Because no one can change
My blood into yours.
This war makes a casing out of your heart
And I your only collateral.
Your arms warm and open for always,
I come weeping to them,
Before the smoke has cleared.

*This is my poetry. Please do not copy the text, reuse it or plagiarize. Thanks!

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