My Son

When I write rhymes

and my exhausted mind is out of breath

and I feel the need to rest;

I think of my son.

I have to show him a better way

because I'm afraid of what he'd become.

There are many outlets, fountains, with seeds sprouting

from a church to a gun.

If it's me who sews the seed and it's he who receives,

then he would be the one.

If the seed I planted, whether straight or underhanded;

How'd he'd understand it;

Granted, the answer's in the future to come.

He might be damaged, branded evangelistic, or the prodical's son.

This just depends on where I'm coming from,

Like Father, Like Son......