my father's son

i am not too happy that i have this title, that i am the second Tarrance Bernard Foster. But i am. and each day i see it more and more. each day, i watch myself become more of that man. the woman he fucked and birthed me too often mentions the visual resemblance and has alluded to the same on a mental state. i see this as well.
and it pisses me of. a response he, too, would have. if my channeled anger could ever be matched, it is by him. i remember many a night the two of us riding to nowhere in his Chevy Suburban, him with a beer in his hand, playing another Tupac album and reminding his only son of how its just him in the world. how he knew i hated him even before i did. how everything he had was going to be in my name. how much he loved me.
years ago...i did love this man. i idolized him. but even a young soul can only withstand so much. there was a fine line between love and hate. he erased it and forced me to draw my own boarders. sadly, no person, after that day, could find that line. no person could cross what they couldnt see. no person knew of my love and i cared not for theirs.

this man is trying to regain access to my life. with nowhere to turn, i am forced to grant him his desire. many tell me that it might be a good decision. i have my doubts.

but i see him. i feel him in me. daily i want to taste alcohol until i forget all of my troubles. i hear his angry voice inside my head. i spat words of hate as though i a fluent in the language of disdain. i see his burning hazel eyes. i look in the mirror and see him...his hairless face stares at me until i can no longer look.

i am not fond of this man. and still i am his junior. his names keeps me near to him. and she wants to name our son the same...if i cannot change the legacy then he, too, will feel this hatred. the hatred of a father's son