I love him, I miss him, I sometimes hate him.
My father is a blurry image,
or maybe a bitter one,
definitely a loving one.
I was his son to a degree,
I shared him with life,
shared him with needles,
with God and voluptuous women.
I miss him cause I was his son,
or maybe I don't,
maybe it's just a sense of abandonment.
I love him as my father,
but was I ever his son.
I carry his name with pride,
a sense of purpose and importance.
As if his name is his last chance,
last chance at redemption,
last chance at salvation.
He's actually alive,
through me, he's alive.
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