My father is an Artist

​stuck within a practical man
with a heart for patriarchy.
And for the longest time,
I could not tell him that I am not chained
within the same walls society has built for him;
that realism is not my burden to carry.
When I tell him, I want to make people feel something,
he binds me to corrupt politicians and false humanitarianism.
When I show him the collection of words I have put together,
he is proud of the feelings I’ve captured and worried by my growing desire to dare.
He hides his trauma and stories of him as a romantic
afraid that he might awaken the courage within me to dream.
When he prays, he wishes me success within a world of reality.
And I wonder, what will it take for him to understand that I am like him,
but oh, so different than him. I am an Artist, father,
tethered by beautiful poetry and heartache to share.