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I gave some mind to giving birth,
a thought that yearns to thrive.
I typed a line and laughed aloud.
This poem came alive.
I nurtured it with loving care
and fed it words so kind.
My wife said, "That's ridiculous."
I answered, "Do you mind?
"Don't talk like that around my child,
he's delicate and frail.
If he absorbs your mockery,
he surely can't prevail."
I raised my baby all alone,
my own to teach and guide.
I watched him grow upon the page.
I wept with swelling pride.
I post him on the contest page.
I told him I believed.
I pondered if he'd hold his own.
Would he be well received?
I wondered if his peers were kind.
Accept him or ignore?
Would they rate my son a six
or slander him with four?
Then came the day he faced the booth,
a truth he must embrace.
I said, "I'll always love you, Son,
no matter where you place."
He asked me, "Dad, should I promote
my metered verse and rhyme?"
I told him that was quite absurd
and just a waste of time.
The booth had closed and my son lost
with one vote by his side.
He entered my portfolio.
I watched him as he cried.
From that day on he just gave up
and had no will to try.
He shriveled up as he grew old.
His only wish, to die.
I watched him suffer years of woe,
a life so void of bliss.
I had no choice but let him go...
then clicked 'Disable This.'
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