my father
is not a man of words.
the only language
he is fluent in is
silence.
i wonder then,
from where did i
get my words?
where poetry
runs in my blood
like wild horses
galloping across
in the belly of the mountains,
silence sits idly
inside his ribcage,
sometimes humming,
sometimes whispering,
always in its own song,
in its own world.
perhaps, he taught me
words in his own silence;
perhaps, somewhere
in my blurry childhood,
he taught me everything
he isn't but should have.
he gave me everything
he never got;
so that i could
write all the words
he couldn't speak.
when i told him of my dreams,
he was quiet.
i never could understand his silence, anyways.
before i could leave,
he told me he wanted me to be everything that i want to.
thank you, baba.
for making me who i am,
for letting me who i want to be.
Author's note:
Yes, that's my dad and me. I look cool, though.🙆😂
YOU ARE READING
Mixtape | Poetry
PoetryMy heart's a stereo, it beats for you. Listen to it closely. [ collection of poems, musings and more ] Cover by yours truly.
