Because I am…

As a night sauntered by, unsighted by the pain.

No name as yet is mentioned, no need for any name.

'Til the moment whence the waiting had become no nuisance though,

To tell of such a lie, would beseech a truth let go.

Full of heady, reeling motion, full of passion, full of glee.

A tide of tears happen fashion, as they spy a so tiny me.

What fair comment can be lowered, onto such a tiny sort?

Can one tell of such excitement, amidst a glory ne'er been bought?

As I lain by, taking notice of nothing but sweet air,

Knowing not of who is present, oblivious to who be there.

In the musky, heated pallor of what I may become,

Builds an instant bond between us; that might still be undone.

Will they live up to my expectation? Can they honour my virtue?

Is it possible to tell them now, before I am able to?

For when birth became my nature, and the day's a new night,

As the darkness had subsided; and the glory was then light.

Did I raise my hand to silence all about me and be brave?

Enough to bury within one question…if you enter…do so as slaves.

Then new ventures have become us, to alight a beckoned fate.

Dreams will tease and toy about us, ensuring reality's irate.

Now, I open my eyes to reason, to spy upon this day,

That is etched into a history and beside it is…no name.

Time will come when I will wonder, as to why they named me so,

Why another name should not be fit? Another answer I'll need to know.

"Look! His eyes are open wide!" Will be a shout of sprouted praise.

A first birthday comes and goes by, drunken glasses to be raised.

My first steps require a picture; my first words require a tape,

My first tears will be tempered by a lack of understanding, (a regular mistake.)

I have the countenance to be a genius, and the verve to follow through,

Yet the promise will not be tendered, lest they realise my own hue.

True the best be done around about, to affect a better life.

And having such delights me, though still cuts me like a knife.

For no child can bear that witness, that his bearer's seem to yearn.

Thence the lessons are unfounded, and difference and diffidence must be learnt.

As the stumbling turns to running, and the fumbling turns to words,

As the response is more humbling; and the curtness is absurd.

So the teachers' become pupils and the pupils follow through,

With knowledge that surpasses the expectations of all of you.

Tarred with brushes made so coarsely, that through butter waves are made,

Will this right of indignation, to our lives pale then into shade.

Can I ask you why you shudder, as you speak of such beguile?

Is it faced with the resignation that your child's a special child?

When you nod in my direction and the days expose him such,

As to light the face afore him, full-rounded words granting minds to touch.

Upon moments not imagined, ne'er provoked by menial chore,

But envisaged by an inner wordsmith that had not been before.

Or was it there forever? And we are slightly remiss,

To admit to not having spied such a joyous, versatile gift.

By remaining so illusive as to grounding with adult guise.

Though what we beseech is before us, a child prodigy we surmise.

Child now tricks menopausal and provokes we do the same,

For remember whence t'was said that he himself might somehow change?

Catch the tail that scurries forward, to the distance as we speak.

Hold on tightly, grasp forever, as fallers by are deemed as weak.

Should you argue, should you ponder and choose to castigate a line?

Check the detail, check the moment, and check the mistake is not thine.

Walk beside that which boasts nothing, but a chance to comment so.

Trier of trying subject matter, testing which is the right, or wrong way to go.

Fleeting glance may pay in attention to exactly what is said.

By initial demise, a language extended, rearranged…now re-read.

Talk of love, and talk of anguish fill full to crisis point.

Ode's doubled, tripled, multiplied, nose continually out of joint.

Rejection bears down heavily and poses doubt to surface with regularity.

Wishful thinking comes to question and my name should change from "me."

A child is lost within its structure, though the inkling is always there.

Buttons pushed, rebound and curse me, recurring images gather full fare.

Hit after hit, shot after shot, life still sucks and he tells it so.

After the shot, becomes the lines, becomes the bemoaning as one goes.

Dreams lay dormant as to wonder, as does disappearing hope.

Intermittent success allows time to ponder on life's slippery slope.

Then…before a score is settled and life has hurriedly passed me by,

Staring wildly into heaven, catching, fetching comments…why?

As I yield to no peer pressure and do somehow enter then the tryst,

Might I hanker not a change of name, but a better choice than this.

Folly turns to serious nature, set a straight and narrow course.

Volatile and witless wonder, trip me silencing with remorse.

Then the do'er hits a version, smaller copies of now him.

Waiting patiently for a time, when a spoken courtship might begin.

'Til then grow, yet lose of nothing of that you attain right now.

Be you always as mindful and wise and so beauteously endowed.

Still the bearer pens another line, as done cannot be spelt…

'Til a lifelong past has ended, and the residue is felt.

Be I spent, be I sullen, be I pig-headed and be I sad.

Be I one thing better than I got…be I a grateful name…dad!