my Father wrote poetry in younger years
of love and loss
of joy and fear
i discovered his work tucked away in a drawer
castaway drifter
returned to the shore

who was this man of sentiment
whose gift of prose is long since spent
who spoke so rarely
and laughed not at all
i knew him not
beyond the wall
that stood in stone
grew stronger with age
his soul now resides
in this book
on this page

The poet lives two lives.
One on the outside,
And one in their mind.

When you look in their eyes
You could see an abyss.

If you looked long enough
You could sink into it.

But most people don’t see it.

Take the time to read the words, though,
And you would know for sure.

The poet lives in two different worlds.

My chest is a cage,
a symphony repeating its first line,
as flower petals fall from my embrace
as I have cried beneath the sky.

While I hop to my feet the cage that bursts of flowers begins to plant anew.
As these feeling blister inside of me
cold sores that I cannot ignore.

As he passes by the cage shrinks around my beating heart.
My pulse a pure cacophony,
a crescendo now,
as lilacs froth within my chest and a forget-me-not petals chokes my every action.

Petals in a flurry oh how shall I ever control this heart of mine.

You remind me of the ocean,
a great sea ruled by the moon;
with calms before the storms,
the tides guide your mood

Outline the moon on the skin of his back,
he's never ashamed when I help him relax

is it comfortable silence

or have we simply run out of things to say