My Father is Bob Dylan (A Poem)

My Father, with all
the words he's never spoken, tangled
in silence, nestled
in the basement with the words
he never sang aloud, singing
from the bottom of his lungs,
the pit of his stomach, humming down
where no one
will hear him.

My Father at home
with the strings, picking
hard and surely a song
he didn't write, singing
for himself the words the world
has heard time over time, but
it is his song, a pain
only he understands.

My Father with his guitar, playing
songs he cannot teach, not through
our silence,
him down in the basement, and me
up in my room, us each
playing our strange music,
no melody or pattern, only our fingers
at heart.

--Matthew Stalbaum, 9/9/11
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I personally consider this poem unfinished. It's probably one of the hardest times I've ever had writing a poem, only because it's so straight-forwardly about my Dad, it's a weird sensation. It's that feeling when you write about someone that you're doing them an injustice - in this case, it's not that I'm afraid of painting him in an unflattering light, but that the poem isn't accurate enough, that it doesn't fully get at why I had the thought that my Father is Bob Dylan. I'm posting it here for general suggestions. I'm also considering writing a short story with this premise, which might go over better, but it's all up in the air right now.