The Father Collective

Nobody cuts any slack for the fathers…

We are the most valuable treasure, but yet are not treasured, and it’s true that our mere presence can make the household better, but why… bother.  Nine times out of ten we had to forge our own definition of men, and we learned to persevere and make it through this existence without suffering extinction, but then family happens and- we lose our freedom.  It is not so much that you are shackles as much as we do not know what to do with you, and had you had this upbringing too, then you would know that knowledge that wasn’t yours was taboo… Ignorance kills.  Knowledge is life, and life leads to thrills.  Survival, sex, and beer!!  Survival, sex, and beer!!  Survival, sex, and beer!!  The mantra encoded on the heart of any man who survived- and gladly do we so cheer.  We celebrate our victory, til the moment rings in our ears… Survival, sex, and beer… Survival, sex, and beer…

Nobody cuts any slack for the fathers…

We would never stoop so low as to complain, nor come in too high like an aero plane, but instead we drop our truths on you like the fallen rain, and for the most part we just want you to not argue and simply say- okay.  At the fringes of this motley coalition are those infamous for woo’ing, impregnating, and abandoning women… Tearing out the hearts of children… Laying hands of violence, slinging the crane into the very structures he’s supposed to be building… That’s wrong.  We apologize.  But understand that we are, plagued by demons the like of which you’ve never seen.  We’ve had to partner with darker things in order to survive to the point where you were brought into being.  This is by no means an excuse, but a tunnel into the underground of fractured manhood, to show you our only perception of truth…

Nobody cuts any slack for the fathers.

Perhaps maybe a little from the daughters, for their hearts go the farthest, but the cold numb of a broken son, is not a damage that is easily undone.  In fact- it never can be.  A broken son, looks to the sun, and raises an unbroken canopy, candidly ranting that his predecessor is who he’ll never be not realizing that as he acts out his scene he is re-enacting… me.  Once a tape has played, rewinding only reinforces the memory and seers in the history- it does not eliminate anything… What we fathers dimly realized too late is that our little boy selves needed healing… Now we are pressed like dry olives to produce much needed oil, our skin starts to boil, health is unfamiliar soil, we come uncoiled, like day old newborns.  In the eyes of the expectant we catch a glimpse of our own reflection, and as we doctor up a prescription we mourn because we never found the medicine.  So what we offer is a calculated concoction, risking it all on the hope that you will find life where we downed a tank full of toxins…

We need grace. 

We need a new way.

We need someone to rise up and prove that the sun has moved and this is a new day…

Even the hero needs a hero sometimes.

Next time you have something to drink… pour a little in the street for us…

… Because nobody cuts any slack for the fathers.

 

**

~The Wordsmith

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