There's a man,

not tall, nothing robust.

He's nothing you'd see out of a magazine,

in fact... He's probably the boy your parents said to be mindful of.

The example.

Nothing criminal.

Just hopelessly trying to be romantic.

The corner cutter, the man who's morals are a little... semantic.

Loveable rosy cheeks,

tiny eyes

and a smile spread across pressed lips despite his tender care to hide his frustrations.

A small man,

but a man he tries to be nonetheless.

Nothing brave, nothing you would expect to be the shining star of 'Fatherhood'

but humorous in his endeavors.

I can do nothing but love him for trying nonetheless.

He is my father, though I am often at odds.

He tries his best, not to be on my worsening thoughts.

He will not argue with me,

though his opinion hardly changes. He will not back down.

But he will be silent for the sake of me, to be close.

Silly old bear.

Still, I cannot be angry with a man who cannot help his own will.

He who falls prey to his own haste and wanton relationship dreams and endeavors.

I love him. I love him still.

Silly old bear.

He has no legs to stand, no, none at all.

He calls for me to be near, to keep him close to ear.

To be my confidant, though I think he already fears that we may not.

Never being quite here nor there together.

Standing far apart, estranged and at times, maybe not.

My arms push further.

I may chuckle, may laugh at how frustrated he gets.

I love his honesty so, though I know.

I know the ways to go about things,

how the way things will go.

He makes guesses, stabs in the wrong direction and I feel less hot.

Less angry with him for the times he was not:

Not there, not here, not where I needed him to be.

Scared, afraid, and running far from her like I ended up doing but I not in fear, but in worry for what I might be.

What monster I might have dreamed to see.

What I might do if the dream becomes reality.

Still.

Silly. Silly old bear.

I love my father dearest, whether we are here or there.

Children

of the world,

call me Daddy

because I’ve decided

on becoming a priest,

so, I can finally tell my lies

without anyone questioning me.

Hold onto my every word

as if I am God himself,

and I’ll offer you penance from the pulpit

making you curtsy before me

like obedient sheep.

I am merely a Shephard

controlling his flock,

and your only job is to baa.

Cry your tears at the altar

into the kneeler trough

so, I can later bless

and bathe your babies in it.

Offer me your starving tongues

on Sundays,

then confess your darkest,

most precious secrets

the other SIX.

We are all but sinners,

but I am a God among Men.

If he made me in his image,

then why shouldn’t I be worshipped?

SIX Hail Marys

and a guaranteed seat in heaven

just for me

because I wear this costume

and you don’t.

Forgive me, lord,

for I am the father

who hath sinned

too many times,

trading one black suit

for another,

and I murdered myself

breaking commandment SIX,

but remember

that the filtered city water

waiting for a lever flush

from the confession toilet

already washed away my filth

by the baptism

blessed on me

in your name,

as if it never happened.

Thanks for that.

Amen.

I am but reborn and righteous now,

refreshed and clean,

living tax-free and untouchable,

and now

I AM YOUR GOD.

In 1951, I was nothing: 1/0'th as old as my father. But you can't divide by zero.

In 1954, I was 1/13th as old as my father.

In 1964, I was 1/4 as old as my father.

In 1974, I was 1/3 as old as my father.

In 1994, I was 1/2 as old as my father.

In 1999, when he died, I had gained ground, being 3/5ths as old as my father.

We were riding an asymptote, he and I, and soon I'll be as old as my father.

When I die, I'll finally be older than him, because I = 1/Fa(n).

But death just doesn't add up, does it? It didn't when he died; it won't when I die, too. To somebody.