Sun.
I sat on the top of the Sequoia tree
blinding myself by watching the sun in the sky.
Hoping by watching that sun
I can find the answers my
Son wont provide
When I ask
Why?
See I already called his high school,
talked to the teachers.
Who provided me with details
of the actions done
by taunting little righteous preachers
Now don’t get it twisted
mama didn’t raise no punk
In fact the boy can be
downright devilish himself
If only a tad more sensitive than most
And so my son cries
when not him
The track-running star
but his shy gay best friend
Is beaten within an inch of his life
And my son
He cant bring himself to
Tell me why he wish
It had been him instead
I watched the sun be
foolishly swallow by the world
but I am comforted in
knowing both will rise again tomorrow.