Daddy dearest…

There are some days where as a stubborn person in life means you do not learn anything but your own opinions and hear the sound of your own voice. Then there are times where you realise how much you learn from listening to yourself and the experiences you’ve had. But no matter how hard I try to keep an open mind about my own experiences and my Dads, the generational gap cannot change his way of thinking; it can merely bend it to a degree. But that degree is not a win on my part that he came round to my perspective on any thoughts I put across. It merely meant that in a second he heard what I said and will choose to keep it, ponder on it or has already forgotten it.
What have I learned in this process is that my POV is mine alone and attempting to alter, change, offer a wider perspective to my Dad is not lost, not wasted and certainly not a defeat of me trying to change his/ the world; but that at least I connected with him. At least we laughed and at least we shared that time together. We talked a lot about “destiny” and “what if” moments, the last part of the conversation was “what if I won the lottery tomorrow, that would be my destiny” and I argued this was a “what if moment rather than destiny, and was based on statistical facts that you would not win”. Ultimately, there are odds that the outcome could go one way or the other but in the end who cares whose right and whose wrong.
“What if” I had the opportunity to live life again and make different choices. I wouldn’t choose to do this moment any differently as I know these moments will be far and few between.

I love you Dad

Stream of consciousness 

Esteemed soul, divine purpose
drive to my minds eye of truth
take back the streams of consciousness
that drives me to mad endeavours
of momentary suicide
to die or not to die but to discuss
the righteousness of others that befell
Me
inherited wickedness of deceit
but who is the deceiver, them or me
lie me gently in the arms of
forgetfulness of resentment of
the quietness that is beauteous
the silence of numbness
that guilt free, pain free death
of selective amnesia
coat me with your paint, armour
me with destruction
self pity, self hate bears heavy burdens
on my mind, draining my emotions of
comfort. The comfort of hate.
leave my body innocuous cuts that fill
with swollen words of lies. The language
of desert storms blistering my spirited
youth into undefinable eras of old age.
search for me when time remembers
that I did once exist.