Mind Making Man.
We live and we die and our history is made,
Providing the shallows for generations to wade
Through, but stop and think because nine months before,
You conceived a notion and you opened the door
To a tremendous sensation of responsibility,
In creating another being’s history.
My history is mine, I love what I create,
My personal museum in which only I can curate.
Yet as I ponder the scale of my plans and our dreams
That seem so benign but my mind demands I feel
That it’s not merely a life that I hope I will mould,
But a brain that ferments and will one day be old.
A cellar of memories, a deep well of him.
It frightens me that this can be done on a whim.
I list all the things that he will perhaps think.
His loves and his hates, trivia gone in a wink
Of his innocent young eye, but I made that too!
This heavy burden I feel in making you, you.
The wistful nostalgia and rose tinted glass
That the grown ups all peer through when they yearn for their past.
My childhood now nothing but a canvas of thoughts,
Yet to wish that upon you is a thought that has brought
Me to the uneasy truth and a weight in my heart,
In my duty, my obligation to make your intellect start.
Do I have the right to make a hole in your mind?
A hole for your memories where your future will find,
A need to reminisce, a place of private mystery,
My overwhelming sensation of building a home for your history.
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