Am I too much like my father,
words spilling out of my mouth
as if a dam has broken at the
back of my throat,
flooding onlookers with whatever comes,
whether they want to listen
or would rather dash away,
scrambling for their own dignity
amidst the inundation?
Instead I criticize those who
keep their reservoirs behind bricks,
letting loose only small streams,
maintaining the walls
and freezing their vibrantly harsh
thoughts, never once
letting them pour out
for the rest of us to wade through.
But if I build it back, brick by brick,
trapping the intense waves
as the wind slaps and stings them,
as the rivers of my mind
pour deeper, darker water into the lake,
I know the dam will burst again
and I will gush through, swimming
with the words that make me who I am,
inviting whoever dares to join me.
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