I am half of you.
Right?
You are 23 of my original 46 chromosomes
Yet,
I barely know you.
But that’s a two way street.
While your second marriage is failing and my relationship is thriving
And I might be drinking a little too much and you might be earning not enough
I have late Friday nights while you are...
Wait.
I don’t know what you’re doing.
My bright blue eyes reflect nothing of your dark chocolate brown
The only thing we seem to have in common is our reputation of being
The tallest in the room.
Dad, I’m growing up.
And it’s not my height this time.
You have always been a man of few words
Well, I’m just the opposite.
I wish we could sit down and pour our hearts out
I want to understand what goes through that forty-seven year old mind of yours
I want to know what sprouted those gray hairs on your head and
How high school changed your life
I want love advice
Tell me funny stories about all the wonderful mistakes you made
As long as you don’t mention the one
Where you forgot to speak to your daughter.

I'm sorry that when you think of the past
you don't see it like i do
instead of sharing skin inside blades of grass
you don't think of it like i do
where grey clouds are always out
you don't remember it like i do
where blue skies shined all the time
i just can't help but think
you don't see it like i do

Standing in the darkened garage
I listen to the whistling winter air
And think of times so long ago
And of one who is not there

My Grand dad was a whistler
No matter what he did
Whether reading, sitting, standing still
Whistling is what he did

He told me once the secret was
To purse your lips and blow
It took me years to figure out
But the secret I now know

No one whistles anymore
I love to hear a whistle or a trill
whether someone is just walking by
Or it's a bird out on the hill
I think of Grandad everytime
I hear a whistle sound
I only wish deep in my heart
That he was still around

Chopin, List, John Lennon
It didn't matter one **** bit
He would whistle what was in his head
And I would listen and I'd sit

Grandad could make music
No matter where he was
His whistle made him special
At least, special to us

No one whistles anymore
I love to hear a whistle or a trill
whether someone is just walking by
Or it's a bird out on the hill
I think of Grandad everytime
I hear a whistle sound
I only wish deep in my heart
That he was still around

The wind sounds high and vicious
As I listen through the door
It's a sound Grandad made daily
It's a sound I hear no more

A simple act of moving air
Across one's lips is all
But Grandad could translate it
Into a wild birds call

No one whistles anymore
I love to hear a whistle or a trill
whether someone is just walking by
Or it's a bird out on the hill
I think of Grandad everytime
I hear a whistle sound
I only wish deep in my heart
That he was still around.

There comes a time
After so much stress
When you are ready to slip into dreams
But you hold onto reality
In that moment
It all makes sense

Also
You become amazing at temple run
And reasons why will always be a mystery

All I want
Is one miracle

I’ve never understood it
When people take a giant leap of faith
That could end in them falling
Inevitably,
To their doom.

I guess I never understood that staying on this side
Of the leap
Means watching you walk away
Until there isn’t any leap to take

I see you there,
Across the chasm in front of me
Your smile
I know you won’t wait forever.
I don’t even know if you are waiting for me
Or if perhaps you are just bored
Maybe you are trying to help
Maybe you think I’m leaping to someone else.

And I know I have to jump.
I hope you catch me.
I know you don’t want to watch me fall
But if that is how this is going to end
It’s probably not going to feel worth it.
As I stare up at you,
Sorry that I destroyed the smiles

I really want to see what’s on the other side
I just want to walk hand in hand down that path
Because, not jumping
And never knowing
Is far worse

Please, please catch me.

I wish it was easy to say who I am.
I wish God was less of a creator and more of an author
Ink stained fingernails glasses brimming the edge of his nose type
Whiskey on the side of his computer; optional.
I wish that in place of these veins and hair and bendable thumbs
I had poetry, soliloquies, syllables, punctuations.
That marked my existence
I wish my mind was a novel and each word inside it
Moved through my organs and around my chest
And when you cracked it open knowing who I am
Would be as easy as reading a book
I wish that when I get so angry I forget to speak
That you could just rip off the end of my skirt and read the
Internal and omniscient monologue in place of my skin
That would explain everything
When I smile during turmoil I wish it wasn’t a mystery
And the chapters printed on my visible teeth
Could tell you exactly why.
If God was an author I would be a character
And each of my traits would have meaning, and significance
Why do I bite my nails?
Because when I was five years old I saw my mother do It and when I’m nervous
I do it to be close to her
That would be the reason and I wouldn’t have to sit and wonder about it
Because that fits my story
Every page of my life would be narrated by someone who knew
Me better than I knew myself and that, that
Would take a lot of pressure off my shoulders.
The horrible weight of self-defining
Wouldn’t it be nice to not have to discover yourself?
To have someone do it for you
Instead of taking years to find out that you work better under pressure
And that being a doctor really wasn’t your true calling after all
What if you could just look down at your body
And see words that told the story of you.
What if you were armed with the knowledge of knowing
Who you are and what your purpose is.
I wish I was literature
So finally I could through my hands up
Shout back at you saying “Here, look this is who I am.”
I like the sound of the ocean
Black and white movies
I get sad when it rains
Just read me.

Like a map
I see my future sprawled on a table
I know where I want to end up
I know where I am now

So many roads

I know which one will be easier
Which one is the “better” choice

Somehow, I don’t want that path

I don’t really care which path it is
As long as your hand is clasped in mine

Unless, you know, you think that would be awkward.