A poem I wrote about making and flying a kite

Was I being oversensitive?
When I let it get to me that
Everyone thought my kite was really
Good

First; of course it was good
I’m a fucking grownup
And a fucking artist
I know my kite was good
I stole the design from Jaws

It was a great white kite
Circling the others like they would be devoured

Yeah, all the other kites were made by kids
My kid’s kite was also a shark
But he didn’t take my advice and drew it profile
It looked a bit unimposing

My kite was like the Jaws poster, a big 
Triangular shape with more triangles
Charging up from under
It was very easy to draw it and make it look good

That’s why I did that. I didn’t want
To look stupid
And I didn’t want to put in too much effort
It was just one of those parent child school things

But all the other grownups said my kite was 
Really good
Jousu they said, the most patronising word of all
It means skilled or good at something

Didn’t need to hear that though
Because I wasn’t there to be praised
I was just there to fly
A kite we made with our kids

Why did they make such a big thing of saying how
Great my kite was
It was great, but sure I didn’t need to be 
Told
Like I was six years old

My own six-year-old, whose kite
Was shite
He needed to be told
But not me, I knew I had the best kite

But saying that mine was best put me
At the same level as all the kids
I was sensitive you see
I was the only foreigner there
The only dad
All the other parents were mums
Dads I guess stay at home brooding 
Or some shit

Well maybe next time I will stay at home
And brood
Worrying if they thought I was just another kid
Because my kite was fucking awesome
Maybe next time I’ll just stay at home
Brooding
Getting all angry that someone said a nice thing to me
And like a real man I’ll write poetry
And complain about how I felt about something
Meaningless
That happened a long time ago
A time when I could still fly kites
With my child and feel
Free and dangerous
As my apex predator sliced through the air
Oblivious to something
Oblivious to what? I don’t know. 
But thanks for pointing it out
Thanks for making me feel stupid
And whose fault is that?

Like my insecurities I could not let go
And the kite I made is resting
Unflown for years
In the attic 
And I still cannot let go
Of that feeling of doubt

Did they really think my kite was good
Should I care
Is it ok to care
Is it ok to be offended
Should I not be offended
Should I throw the kite away
Should I take the kite and fly it
Should I burn the kite
Should I write a poem about it
Too late for all that

I miss kites
I miss my son
And I wish I had a brain that doesn’t 
Constantly 
Turn every little thing into a great long poem of nothingness like this one