(my son is) Breaking Tradition

my son screams
denies that he is like me
his eyes, secretive, avoiding mine
i want to tell him about this empty room
of myself and my contenance
of sorrow that bleeds
this room where whispers creep like
lianas in the wilderness
ridden with tear stains
tarnished by latent pain
this room where we lock ourselves in
and feel useless, sweeping with hope
mopping with optimism and foolishly
painting paradise
just to be useful.
my son wants to break traditions
he wants to unlock this room
where secrets hide in the dark
and piety is wont.
still i want to tell him of this room
to make him comprehend
the light in my hands
the madness i carved in my head
the music of silence and
the miracles of seclusion.
my son hates me
he denies he is like me
his eyes are unyielding walls of
mobile phones, internet and music
his pants sway to hip hop
trash, Britney spears and Elliot
his words are a foreign carnival
his joys and sorrows, displayed
for social scrutiny
i do not know the contents of his room

the mirror image reflects a stranger.

he is breaking tradition.