A little girl sits at the kitchen table,
Silently coloring while watching cable.
She asks, “Why does Daddy yell at you?”
Her mother says, “it’s just something he likes to do.”
She asks, “Did your Daddy yell at you?”
Her mother says, “Yes he did that too.”
She asks, “Will my future husband yell at me?”
Her mother says, “No, that should never be.”
Her mother hugs her tight and whispers,
“Well go far, far away, where theres only happiness,
And no more angry voices can ever reach us.”

It’s a race against time,
As if I’ve just committed a crime.
You were at the back of the line,
I was up front craning my neck in serpentine.
Trying to memorise your face,
In a sea of strangers in this crowded place.
We finally make eye contact,
And for a split second I know for a fact.
That a simple “hello, nice to meet you”
Would be the start of something new.

A natural yet cruel reminder,
That we all have a hidden number.
Of decades, or years, or months, or days,
Left on this world, before we fade away.
“Grandpa had a fall in the middle of the night”.
And you start praying that he can win this fight.  
“Grandma has cancer and it’s terminal”
And you start hoping for a proper miracle.
“Your uncle Ben can’t walk without a cane”
And you start blaming God for all this pain.

Some sort of checklist people have,
That may be found in a photograph.
It could be a one way ticket to Budapest,
Or scaling the top of Mount Everest.
Seeing the Eiffel Tower and Mona Lisa,
Or a picture with the leaning tower of Pisa.
Swimming with turtles in the Bahamas,
Or exploring Peru in search of llamas.
Lying on white sandy beaches in Sicily,
There’s nowhere else in the world I’d rather be.

It’s almost half past eleven,
This feels strangely like heaven.
Blink-182 playing in the background,
While we sing along in an off-key sound.
The dinner plates waiting to be put away,
I hope they can understand the delay.

A little girl looks up at her mother,
She says “when I get older,
I want to be a doctor, or a poet,
A dancer, or a pilot,
A lawyer, or an artist,
A designer, or a pianist”.
Her mother tells her sadly,
“Baby, I want you to be happy,
And do all the things I couldn’t possibly,
And be all the things I could never be”.

At a bar near Grand Central Station,
Free flowing alcohol and conversation.
The steady sound of champagne glasses clinking,
In celebration of new beginnings.
Strangers drunkenly exchanging digits,
With the hope of a quick backdoor exit.

Eyelids heavy on the I-30,
You kissed my hand and told me you loved me.
Not a soul on the road, just you, me and Biggie,
Looking at the sunrise you said, “Isn’t she pretty?”

Is it a place that people visit?
A desert with a watering hole in it.
Is it a person that you adore?
Making you laugh till your ribs are sore.