There is so much
greatness to be had.
When did you forget that?
My son, if I told you this
would you listen?
I think not, because I didn’t.
So I will wait for you
to figure it out
the only way you know how.
And it’s there
that you will remember
what life was like
before you chose to walk away.
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Another word to an unborn son
Some day
out of nowhere
your mood
will shift
from one hundred percent
to zero,
and you will feel sad
and you will feel weak
and you will feel vulnerable,
and that’s good
that’s natural
that’s life,
so get used to it,
it’s a beautiful thing
even when it hurts most.
The words I’d say to an unborn son.
If you’re not ready to let go,
then don’t.
Hold on as long as you need,
and then some.
These are words I’d say,
to an unborn son.
If it seems repetitive,
that’s good.
If it hurts in a hundred different ways,
it’s supposed to.
If you don’t want to smile,
let them see you frown.
These are the words,
I’d say.
Does it get easier,
at times.
Should you forget,
never.
Is it your fault,
no.
The words I’d say are these.
Life will kick your ass.
Love will break your heart.
Death will drug your senses.
With the strength of a mother’s love,
I would say.
You are your father’s child,
but make no mistake,
you are not your father.
The King’s Sad Song.
The failed King sat on his throne.
His Queen had already fled.
Watching his people die, he couldn’t shake the thought
of who would bring him his dinner tonight.
The chef’s were gone, the jester dead.
As for his Queen, well he could find another Queen.
And no matter how much blood was shed,
his people showed no sign of stopping.
It was nearly a 50/50 split – men, women, and children.
He couldn’t help but wear his grin proudly.
It was until he saw his son beheaded that his grin began to fade.
It wasn’t so much the action of it all but rather the one who’d done it.
Down there, past all the bloody corpses, stood his Queen.
What she was shouting he could not quite make out but it went something like this.
I’d rather slay my own kin than have them carry on your name.
Why had his son been down there with the poor and wild rabble-rousers?
He then took note, that he was alone in his castle. How puzzling he thought.
But this did not bother him too long, for he’d only needed what his people could give him.
A King has no need for the physical person, surely he knew this.
Then at the strike of noon, the King began to sing.
Through the screams and fury and onslaught of ravaged flesh, he sang.
It went something like this.
My God what have you done,
my Lord could you believe,
that there is no helpful soul
to serve me steak and peas.
I’m still dealing with your ghost.
Please stop reading if you’ve heard this before.
It’s been 15 years since.
And I’m still holding onto a ghost.
15 god damn years.
And I’m still crying in a coffee shop.
I wasn’t even 15.
And you sure as hell weren’t a Boy Scout,
so who tied the noose?
I want to know what type of knot you used.
It’s been 15 years.
And I want answers.
Answers that I’ll never receive.
I want an apology.
You son-of-a-bitch.
How embarrassed you must have been.
I wasn’t even 15.
And they don’t even know the half of it.
And here I am again.
Wasting my energy on this endless sadness.
Because you couldn’t hack it.
Towards the end they say you were over medicated.
Well it’s been 15 years.
And it’s probably the reason I don’t even like to take aspirin.
It’s just that over 15 years it’s been hard to explain.
Like when you come right out and say it.
He. Committed. Suicide.
Kids used to awkwardly laugh at first and then realize I wasn’t lying.
And suddenly everyone’s sorry.
Suddenly I have to act sad.
Or act like it’s fine.
Nobody wants to see you break down in front of them.
Nobody wants to know your whole life story.
15 god damn years and I’m blubbering like a baby.
Screaming at the top of my lungs – drunk.
So if you’ve heard this before please stop reading.
Because I’m sure I’ve said it.
I’m as sure as I was 15 years ago.
Lost.
Because you don’t get custody after biting someone on the face.
And I don’t get answers.
I don’t get an apology.
Even after 15 years.
I’m still dealing with your ghost.
Words Of An Average White Male 