The End

The End

You hold
My dried up heart
In your hands.
So why can't you nourish it?

You hold
My shattered dreams
In your hands.
So why can't you piece them back together?

You hold
My deteriorated mind
In your hands.
So why can't you get it thinking again?

You hold
My depleted soul
In your hands.
So why can't you fill it?

Why can't you save me?
Because it's simply too late.
I waited too long
To ask for help.

So I take my pride
My fear
With me

I take my space
My distance
With me

Being alone is not
What cost me
No, I like alone time
With this once good friend of mine

It's just that
I wasn't a good friend to myself
And haven't been
For some time

I should've asked
For help
So very long ago,
But now I ask this

Take my heart, my dreams
And my mind and my soul
Keep it close
Keep it always

So that in the end
I might at least be
A fading memory...

Father's Pride

Father's Pride

It's not in the folds
Of his wallet,
The layed over layers
Of green paper.

It's in the plastic
The protective casing,
For the images
Held closest to his heart.

It's not in the square footage
Of the house.
Nor in the acres
Of the yard.

It's in those hash-marks on the wall,
Marking the height of his greatest joy.
It's in the scraped knees
And in the climbed trees.

It's not in his boss' recognition
Of a job well done.
Nor in the length of his title
On the sign outside his door.

It's in the shirts, mugs, and cards
That say #1 Dad.
It's in the length of his patience,
Which will be tested everyday.

It's not in the trophies,
Even if winning is fun.
Nor in the medals,
Even if he's happy to see them shine.

It's in all the hard work,
The dedication and diligence.
It's in the faces of those other kids,
Teammates made happy by their child's spirit.

It's not in his child's bank account,
Even though he wants them to be well.
Nor in his child's job title,
Even though he wants them to succeed.

It's in his child's heart,
Their compassion for others of all fortune.
It's in his child's selflessness,
Their willingness to do and be for others.

If the father can feel
That his children are of love,
Genuine love,
Then pride comes naturally.

I will always
Be of love,
Because I am loved
By a proud father.

Getting It Right

Getting It Right

Children look at the world
With the kind of wonder
Adults scoff at as naivety.

Children embrace their fellow human being
With an unconditional sense of inclusion;
Adults teach them to be "more selective."

Children learn with the fervor
Of an open mind;
Adults box them in with test scores.

Children laugh and coo, giggle and drool
Using only the words Adults teach them
And Adults say the meanest things.

Adults insult one another
With the word "childish,"
Insisting that the target of their cruelty grow up,

But have you ever stopped to think
That being childish would mean
Being better.

It would mean you still have wonder
And therefore hope
For a world in desperate need.

It would mean your heart still beats
To the rhythm of love for one another,
Which has become a trait rarer than gold in Adults.

It would mean you still want to learn
Purely for the sake of learning,
Having successfully fought off intellectual complacency.

It would mean you're still genuine
With the emotions you show on your face and in your words,
Not having to resort to hashtags and emojis.

Put simply, yet profoundly
Much like a child would state:
Children get it right...
and then they become adults.

Forever Alone

Forever Alone

You read the title
And begin to assume
That this poem must be sad
Of doom and of gloom

But I walk this path
Filled not with loathing
Nor with wrath
Simply because it's mine to walk

I stand upon a lonely stage
With coupled oculi gazing
Transfixed on my stance
Both in stature and voice

But from behind those eyes
Is all the support I need
I reciprocate this gift of the soul
With honesty, humility, and passion

And that's what I have
That keeps me company forever
A passion for what I do
The difference I make

But it's my difference
To make
My heart
To fill

So I hold my heart
Within my chest
But it nestles peacefully
In their hands

Just because one must
Forever be but just the one
And therefore, in a way,
Alone

It does not mean
Their heart must be propped up
Solely by their own efforts
Especially when love is meant to be shared

Firsts

Firsts

In a world of firsts
A timeline of beginnings
Even an end
Is a first

Turn It Off

Turn It Off

There's a light
On my ceiling
Blink, Blink
It goes
Blink, Blink

These are the things
I notice
When all I really want
Is to shut things down
I'm not sad

Just tired
I'm tired of my brain
Running the 100 meter dash
Again and again and
Again

I want to find
The person with the starter's pistol
So I can rip it from their hands
And shove it down their throat
Stop the race

I want to stop
Look around
Shake hands with the other racers
Stop and sit
Talk

I want to rest my feet
And use my voice
But not for long
I want to shut down
Even my voice eventually

Eventually doesn't mean permanently
I'll get up at some point
And help the person
With the starter's pistol,
Back to their feet

I can't be angry at them
After all,
They were just doing their job.

With Words: An Unjust Description

With Words: An Unjust Description

Do not ask of me
A description of her heartbeat
That matches the rhythm
Beneath the almighty sea

A force grand in spectacle
And nurturing in faith
Faith in its presence
And tranquility

Do not ask of me
A description of her eyes
That harness the emotional spectrum
So that one might believe

To believe in something
Something real
Something greater
Dare I say divine

Do not ask of me
An understanding of her smile
That could make one sob
And heal the deepest wounds

All at once
She is so much
So much more
Than can be done justice

With words