He was bold. He wrote a dollar sign in place of the letter 'S' stamped his name and gave instructions to his guest 'Name me a day and I'll write you a play'. He was my son. Don't tell me that he was not my friend. Charles was his name given to him from an early age. He named himself 'Charming Leather belts' an angel with premature wings he spoke and we listened.
'I want a jumper!' he says but my wife and i knew he wanted more much more but we couldn't give it to him he cried and shrieked in his five year old way. Fortunate Parliament carry my son to the crusade.
By age ten he was enrolled to Cambridge business was his greatest vision Ph.D by the age of fifteen. He, my son, scared me. Wrinkled and brittled with amorous aims; I stand pouring vigorously.
My wife called him ''Charming' Professor Charles' and groaned at me when i craved for content. Numerous of times did i sleep in the sofa and aimlessly picked up the book 'Frankenstein'; a poet.
He must be killed stoned and whipped to the highest order. Thugs will strike him with iron thorns and he'll be flushed-down into comas and the viciousness of its green shores. That bastard. How dare him call me
'father'? I never loved him; his deformed image how it puts me into glee when i hear him sing that sweet song 'twinkle, twinkle little star'.
"You born me a child and I'll baptize a war on your ungrateful soul and contumacious goals. I'll harm you like a pig forsaken on the territory of hungry lions 'Pardon' will be the word your mother will provide on the day of your funeral bed. And nothing more.
Caw does a bittersweet symphony. A distorted noise; my mind was put to rest."