I give kindness freely
as if I had an eternity
of time to share my
gentlemanly disposition.

But trust is reserved
and given only in
minor increments.
It is mostly
non-existent.

Gentle as I am
I resist the urge
to trust a stranger.
Given kind words
even the familiar
seldom earn
my highest esteem.

For what I have seen,
honesty is less enticing
the travesty of finding
fellow friends lying
and vying
for their own interest
has left me introverted.

Even love is held back,
because I do not want
to give anyone that
which could mortally
wound me.

Where will I be
when I turn sixty-three?

Will summertime
come to find
me sitting on
a chair in my
back lawn,
as a stray cat
stretches out
and yawns
to the setting
of the evening sun.

Or will dawn fine me
rising old and lonely
with more regret
for what I have not
done yet
and never will.

Will I be
the patriarch
of a late start
family,
with grandchildren
swarming me.

Or will death find me
several years to early
making sixty-three
this millennial’s
never will be
late night fantasy.

It wouldn’t be the blues,
if once in a great while
you dropped by with a smile
and some speck of good news.

i’m sorry for everything.

i’m sorry that you are afraid of your own thoughts.
i’m sorry you are afraid of your own feelings.
i’m sorry that you believe that you are destined to be alone.
i’m sorry that you can’t talk about your feelings without feeling guilty or selfish.
i’m sorry that you get too into your own head and can’t get out.
i’m sorry that you can’t get into relationships because you don’t think you’re good enough for anyone.
i’m sorry you think you only have friends because they pity you.

i’m sorry you can’t see yourself they way everyone else in your life says they do.