by Rod Freer

Created on: April 17, 2009

He challenges you with words acerbic;

To your kindness he reacts allergic.

Should he smile, it like dew dies in the light.

Why does this boy, once my bouncing delight,

Now shun me, insulting, surly and mean?

The fight is constant, no end is yet seen.

Will he be an unpleasant man when grown?

Or will his heart, happiness once more own?

Teenage angst is everywhere infectious.

He, no exception, is with ire incumbrous.

Son, I would say, seek happiness always;

But know our efforts the evil one waylays.

Do not be disheartened by his diversion.

Won by troubles and trials patiently borne,

Quiet joy can be yours if evil you scorn.

Leave the ranks of the people unpleasant;

Let your light shine that inside glows impatient.

"It is good" pronounced He who made it,

The world we see suffers with sin surfeit.

But the good he made is there to be mined;

To be sluiced with a mind and soul refined.

Mad or glad, I still remain your father;

Ready to love and in my arms gather.

Go in peace my son, the battle is yet to be won.

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