At the age of 13,

I began to build a sense,

That something was amiss,

I lived lived with a man,

Who was not my father,

Nor should he ever be called one,

He, the oppressor, of no principles,

He, who should never be called a man,

His is merely,

The scum on the bottom of one’s shoe,

When I thought of what a man was,

I simply made things up,

At the age of 14,

I met a man,

Who was my father,

And found what a real man should be,

He, the representation, of men.