by Michael Davis

Created on: February 12, 2009

A child, a blank slate, a ball of clay.

All potential to make a better day.

You pounded me into distorted shapes,

Tried to turn my hopes to sour grapes.

With biting words, you ripped at my soul.

With untethered rage, you tore at me whole.

All to break me for what you failed to be,

All to take from me what you could never see.

Shall I remain cowering in this corner alone,

A misshapen ball of clay and broken bone?

Shall I follow the angry words etched on your slate,

That echo in my nightmares to this very date?

No, I will be that child, that seed, that hope.

I will be that spirit that perseveres not merely copes.

I will shape my own clay, breaking the mold you set for me,

Be my own man, a real father, glorious shall I be!

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