It’s obvious that you’ll be a grown-up woman,
And a lot of people among them men, will start questioning you.
If they come asking of whom I were,
Probably when I’m already gone.
Hush them down and;
Tell them that I was a self-generated
A fictitious character whom spoke truthfully,
With a natural bent for writing.
Tell them I’m written in the history I created myself.
That I’m copyrighted in my own poems, and they should look up for me.
Tell the hungry men that, there’s so many miles between our souls, but I still love you with my eighteen english beer gallons, and our hearts are still too intertwined together.
Tell them that they shouldn’t think of taking advantage of you, because I’m a soulless soul still standing guard at your doorstep, just like the old times.
Tell them I wasn’t a mad man, I was just a man lost inside his head, that’s why I was off the chains.
Tell them that, I’m sorry I didn’t do what they asked me to, I had a problem in being told what to do, because I was a self-generated man.
Tell them that, I’m sorry I didn’t heard what they told me, I had a problem in being told what to do, because I was already a fictitious character with a problem in distinguishing truth and deceit.
Tell them that, I’m sorry I didn’t accepted to be included in their books of history, I had a problem in being an additional item and a representation, because I was already creating my own infamous history.
At the end of the recount, sit them down, be hospitable enough and serve them some soul-ale.
And inform them that I’m not a tale but your only lovely Dad.
(c) Swahiba 2017.