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

hurricane season

i believe i love this time of year. the beginning of the academic year. when it is still hot enough to wear shorts and beaters to the pool but often windy enough to don a hoodie. it is often gloomy, grey clouds, light showers, thunderstorms. fitting of my personality, sadly. i have come to the conclusion that i am something of an "emo". i often wear black, i walk alone more so than with a group, my favorite songs are somber ones, "hate" rolls off my tongue like "love" should and i prefer darkness to light (i am only a few nerves short of cutting myself).

i dont think im happy. im not sure what all happiness consist of, but i'm pretty sure it lacks in my life. she remedies that, but only for short periods of time (which are now shorter cause shes gone). i even believe that my unhappiness is spilling over effecting my relationship. sometimes i need an escape, and no longer can she provide that for me. between her friends, social life and school work, i find little area to squeeze my hoggish ways into her life. i may text to receive a response many minuets or hours later when i forget the initial text in the first place. i choose not to bring this to her attention for i wish not to seem too...greedy. she has her own life and must live it. thus, i must do the same.

this is possibly a call to arms. a poem rings over and over in my head, to remind me of my refusal to be defeated.
"thank whatever gods may be for his unconquerable soul [...] though my head may be bloody it remains unbowed"

i do not enjoy my life. each day i let death know that i am ready. each day i wish i was elsewhere. each day i curse this life. each morning i curse my mother, who lays her hand on me as though she cares, for this life. each day, i curse myself for allowing myself to become a failure. each day...each and every fucking day i remember how much i hate this life.

and more sadly than knowing that i hate this life is knowing that i have to continue to live it.
that is my truth. i must live this out...i must remain on this island until hurricane season ceases.