A Mans' Troubles

what shall i say to my wife,
what shall i tell my children,
at my entry home,
with no bread in my hands,
or that little hope,
that their groaning 'machs shall seize the mourns,
what shall i do when they be sent home,
can't afford the fees,
only patched clothes,
torn books,
shall i hang myself,
and hope to watch them from heavens above?,
praying and wishing them better days?
or will i run away,
drown in madness,
smoking herbs,
and injections,
thoughts of them attempts to forget?
will they ever forgive me?
will i there angelic voices shut from mind,
those little voices saying 'bad dad',
worst dad?
can i even my head raise,
in walks along cold streets,
trying to evade such condemning gazes,
thrown in arrow points on me?
shall i ever that guilt write off?
or shall die young like a father i knew,
be buried in merry,
and leave them in custody of greedy heads,
that shall away will gnaw the only straws left for them?

such be my few of many questions,
of a father,
if be,
i do ask myself,
but in a creator i trust,
whom that gave me life,
health,
and capability,
that i may in night and day toil,
that sweat break,
in such a reward comes,
and my sons and daughters shall have plenty,
for them and their children,

so this young me that they laugh at,
in my day to next struggles,
trying this life to strangle,
mocking the tin shack i call my fortress,
shall have the last laugh when their ribs are broken,
for i know what i sow,
and He that above sits,
these works shall bless.

©2011