It would be redundant
to say that life is hard;
that is it's definition;
its very essence.

We make it such
by wanting it to be fair.
Life is not fair; some just
don't care enough to see its inherent challenge.

Sometimes, I wish I was ignorant
to this truest of truths.
Sometimes, I wish I could settle
for what I can't change.

I hide in plain view
Leaving my thoughts
where anyone can find them;
hoping they won't be found
by those who need to hear them most.

Lovers, parents, friends
read right through me.
I am a stranger in my words,
masked by things I am not
supposed to feel.

Will they ever learn
that the person they see,
outside of the words,
is merely a parasite
on the true beings soul?

I wonder if I will ever see you again.
You are here, but the words you say aren't yours.
Did you finally just give up?
Did you realize the world is just as awful as you always fought away the knowledge of its being?
Or have I really just disappointed you that much?

There was a time, not so long ago, when I felt your pride.
There was a time when, even for my losses, you still saw what I could be.
Now, I see the ghost of myself through the eyes of the ghost of you.
Hating me will not bring him back.

Each day that passes brings your one bit closer;
closer to that shadow place on the hill where Jamie sleeps.
Will I ever see you again, before you go to rest there, too?
Or, have I already missed goodbye?

....and as the mother comes to realize she loves her children despite their ugliness, I have come to, at least, accept the gangling imperfections of my writing as the hallmark of my intellectual progeny. Thank you.

There is power in knowing
that my poems
are the only part of me
you do not know.

Would you recognize yourself in them?
Would you realize you are my muse?
Silly man.
Of course you wouldn't.

For you cannot see the forest
for the trees,
and you cannot see yourself
for the words.

If I were asked the day,
I could tell you the day.

If I were asked the hour,
I could tell you that, too.

If I were asked the minute,
I could paint it for you with words.

If I were asked the second,
I could draw you to it and you would never want to leave.

I choose one moment, though,
of bliss that will last me forever.

For, if you never uttered my name again,
I would always feel your hands on my eyes.

For, if you were to walk out of my life,
I would always remember the fire flies.

Who do I see when I look in the mirror?
Do I have my mother's eyes?
My father's nose?

When I see my reflection,
how many generations, how many lives,
peer back at me?

What countries run through my veins?
What stories have joined to make me who I am?
What ghosts contribute to my story?

I will never never know where I am going
until I know where I have been.
A mystery to myself, trapped in the prison of my unfamiliar being.

Soon I will know.
Soon, the pieces will be laid before me
and slowly, I can piece the puzzle together.