Love sent me searching, longing for more,
The kind that don’t knock—it kicks down the door.
The love that you showed me was twisted, confined,
Not trinkets or words stitched frozen in time.

Love is a feeling, it crawls down your spine,
Fills up your heart, takes hold of your mind.
It’s not always gentle, not always kind—
Sometimes it hurts, leaves pieces behind.

Love sends you reeling, hoping to find
A flicker of joy from someone in time.
But love made you angry, it tore you apart,
And the love that you gave me—
It bruised my heart.

Not of my kind, not born from the same—
I’ve learned that now, it’s not all a game.
But it’s hard to show love when you think you know how,
When your past plants a flag and won’t let you bow.

I learned from my father, my mother was kind—
Their love carved a space that lives in my mind.
So the love that I carry, the love that is mine,
Is gentler, is deeper,
It’s not of your kind.

You sent them my way,
Put yourself in my path—
Smiled as you passed.
I missed your signals.
I missed your signs.

You brushed my arm,
Put your name in my head,
Smiled, gave me your card.
I missed your signals.
I missed your signs.

You cut my hair,
Put your hand on my head,
Smiled as you said that…
I missed your signals.
I missed your signs.

You watched me waiting,
Put your hand in my hand,
Smiled as we discovered—
I missed your signals.
I missed your signs.

You offered your love,
Put your ring on my hand,
Smiled, shared the moment.
I missed your signals.
I missed your signs.

You asked me to share,
Put us now, not me,
Smiling together.
I missed your signals.
I missed your signs.

You needed my help,
Put matters aside—
Smile fell from our face.
I missed your signals.
I missed your signs.

You should have known
Put these issues aside—
Smiled, and remembered.
I missed your signals.
I missed your signs.

They speak in Scripture,
but they govern in greed.
They wear the Word like a badge,
but never bleed for it.

They promise morality,
but legislate division.
They quote the Sermon,
then sell the sword.

They say “God bless America”
but mean “God bless our base.”
They stir the faithful—
not to save,
but to sway.

And still,
the churches cheer.
Still, the crosses wave
on lawns and bumper stickers,
as if Christ Himself
endorsed a party line.

But Christ healed the stranger.
He fed the poor.
He turned over tables—
He didn’t sit at them
and bargain for votes.

They don’t walk with Him.
They walk ahead,
dragging His name
like a flag.

Do my politics matter to you?
What I say,
Who I stand for—
Red or blue?

You talk down to me
when I stand up for my right.
You call me stupid,
like what I believe has no place in the light.
Red or blue.

Every conversation—
a confrontation.
We don’t listen.
We just wait to speak.
We don’t hear each other.
We don’t see each other.
Red. Or blue.

But when I show up to work,
and you’re the one on the table—
heart exposed,
life hanging in the balance—
should I even stop to ask:
Red?
Or blue?

Because out here,
in the real world,
that line we draw in our minds—
it disappears.

When it’s life or death,
when it’s breath or no breath,
when it’s me and you—
I have to be red and blue
just to deal with you.

Not because I choose to,
but because I need to.

Because underneath the votes,
beneath the noise,
we are more than colors,
more than sides,
more than lines drawn to divide.

And maybe,
just maybe,
we could remember that—
before the next fight.

Red or Blue

When your child was born,
you laid her on a blanket on the floor.
You crouched low,
looked her in the eyes.
You goo-goo and gaga’d to draw her in—
you came down to her level.

As she toddled through your home,
you dropped to one knee,
met her where she was.
You spoke gently,
corrected softly,
always guiding her—
down to her level.

As she grew,
your words stayed kind,
you negotiated with patience,
nudged her with wisdom—
still
down to her level.

But now she’s grown.
A woman, yes—
but still your child.
And now, you talk to her as your equal.
You try to relate adult to adult.
But you forgot
to come down to her level.

Because even now,
she looks up to you.
She needs your words
not as a peer,
but as her parent—
measured, loving, grounded.
Down to her level.

I’m sorry your bond is broken.
Not because you changed,
but because you couldn’t find
that shared ground again—
that quiet space where love meets understanding.
Because you didn’t
come down to her level.

I left you
standing on the hill.
Not in anger,
not with hate—
but with the quiet ache
of knowing I could not stay.

I told you
it would never be my home.
Not because it lacked beauty,
but because it lacked foundation.
Still, you asked me to stay,
to shield you from the wind.

You wanted a protector,
a wall against the storm,
but I am not the wind’s master.
I am not the mountain.
I cannot hold back
what was always coming.

I watched as your hill
began to erode—
not from neglect,
but from the nature
of what it was made of.

I tried to build it up,
to shape it into safety,
to sculpt from sand
a fortress strong enough
to hold us both.

But you can’t build forever
on something that washes away.
And love,
as much as it longs to stay,
needs something solid
beneath its feet.

So I left you
standing on the hill,
not because I stopped caring—
but because I finally saw
I was sinking too.

I knew in a moment—
my heart fell fast.
In your eyes,
I was caught—
in a love
meant to last.

Your hand in mine,
like a thread through time.
And in that second?
The world
was mine.

You laughed
like a song
only I knew.
And I held
every word—
like it might not be true.

Each look
was a fire.
Each touch,
a flame.
And nothing we felt
ever once
felt like shame.

But your father—
he stood there
still.
With a wary stare
and a warning to ****
what we had
before it flew too far.
Said:

Love takes time, son.
Don’t chase a star.
It burns too bright.
It fades too fast.
Young love is fire—
but it never lasts.

He told me to walk away.
To spare you the pain.
To disappear
before we both go insane.

But I looked in his eyes
and I said quietly
If she’s gonna hurt,
Then let it be me.

Not the man she believes in.
Not the one she adores.
Not the first love she’s known
who then slams the door.

If I break her?
Time might heal the ache.
But if you do it…
it’s a different break.

You’ll teach her that love
isn’t worth the risk.
That it ends
in silence,
in rules,
in a fist.

Let her feel it.
Let her fall.
Let her rise,
even if she crawls.

Because love—
even young—
isn’t always a lie.
It can teach us to live
even when we say goodbye.

So if it must end…
then I’ll take the fall.

But don’t be the reason
she builds up a wall.

Let her believe
that her heart can be free.
And if it must break?
Then let it
be me.