When I look in the mirror I see:
boy not a man
the son of a father I refuse to understand
the "brother" of a brother like a wound I neglect
the coward of a sister with the world I forget
the prodigal son, but I am yet to return
from a siege where I take refuge but I want to watch burn
your lover, [bad word]  your champion, your friend
forever by your side but not in the end

The fortunate son who dwells in the city,
with the poorest of the poor, still, I ask for your pity

and while there's a man who sleeps on the ice-cold streets
his godsend not in me, but in his cardboard: his sheets

yet

I still see the same son.