You always give me love
But I'm hostile towards you

You always trust in me
But I'm clueless what to do

You tell everyone I'm a gentleman
But I've never held the door

You tell everyone I'm a hero
But I've never been to war

You say I make you happy
But I only see you frown

You say I lift you up
But I only let you down

You think that I'm a man
But a man I'll never be

Why do you think I'm always scared
When you believe in me?

The power of music
and friendship
heals dead connections;
a well-meaning member
of a jam session
offers me a guitar.
I politely decline,
embarrassed by my disability,
and they shrug.  Your choice.
The familiar curves
beneath my arm
like a woman
from my past,
my amnesiac left hand
reaches for the
muscle memory
of fifty years' practice.
After an agonizing minute,
the G chord miraculously plays,
as I played it at five,
the three big fingers alone
strong enough to hold it.
The switch to C impossible;
so I play a variation.
Doesn't sound bad with the group.
My God, I might play a D7
by the next time it comes around
in the song.
The gang is playing old standards,
Ohio State music;
three chords and a cloud of dust,
which suits my present skill(?) well.
I almost cried when a few tunes later,
we sang A Horse With No Name
to my accompaniment.

Beethoven was deaf, yet heard the Ode To Joy.
Hawking is paralyzed, and travels the universe.
I have three good fingers,
and no good excuses.

You threw the glass,
and your anger smashed it.
You cut your fingers on your own hate.
If you only would've been patient,
we would've gotten home,
without bloodstains all over your shirt.

*Dear brother,
you still have so much to learn.

Hair can be mischievous,
You never know when it will strike next,
Don't ever let your guard down,
Run when you feel danger,
Or better yet,
Xylophate it,
You must know what that means,
Make no fuss about it if you don't.
Either way, remember:
The
Hair
You
Love
Can...be your downfall!
Use care 24/7,
Let nothing convince you otherwise,
Let nothing lure you into trusting your hair,
Or it will stab you into the back.
Love your dog, but never your hair,
Once you do this, you will be:
SAFE!

Exit paranoia; poem is done.

We stand in twilight hues...
Fingers consciously entwined in a clasp.
We speak without vocals
that crescendo between sighs and gasps.

We anticipate...
But we do not look forward...
Not to the promise of freedom and salvation.
More so the uncertainty
that resonate with the *****
of feathered morning birds.

The unknown scares us so.
We know not of what lurks,
in the impending light of day.
We simply bide the ticking seconds...
As we scramble for the right words to say.

When there needn't be such uncomfortable silence.
No need for an awkward stance.
For we've embraced the melody,
memorised the lyrics
and rehearsed the dance.

Yet...
We hesitate...
Even though we've decided that we must.
For what shadow that looms agape below us,
hurling threats of swallowing us whole,
will soon be warded off...
As quick as the errant gust.

The darkness...
Will soon be cast behind our backs.
And all would be committed to memory
as surely as it had begun.
It would dissipate as it would stretch far...
But only if we turn to face the dawning sun.