I went to the park today
and marveled at the ducks gliding across the pond.
Above the surface,
smooth sailing, graceful, serene.
When just below,
their webbed feet,
kicking like hell,
struggling to keep going.

Today's Father's Day
Well..
For me...
its just another

Sunday

Over the past week and a half or so,
I've had a recurring dream.
Now, I have no prophetic powers
so I spend quite a bit of time contemplating
the meaning.
Essentially, it is a collection of every
nightmare, darkness, fear that I have ever had.

The dream starts with me sitting in an auditorium
with everyone I have ever known.
I am called to the stage,
then each of my so called friends proceeds to
publicly pelt me with every imaginable
instrument of torture that my flesh has known.
Time does not seem to follow the same rules
in this pseudo-reality
what feels like days translates to minutes,
takes an hour to equate to a lifetime.

After hobbling away from that chaos,
I search for a place to hide,
only to find verbal assaults and derogatory onslaughts
coming from twisted, distorted faces,
of shadowed figures.
Yet they seem
familiar.
Something about them just feels like I know these sources
of festering pain, exactly like when you get a cold sore
and can't stop tonguing it. You know its there,
but you make sure, because there is a small glimmer of hope,
that the next time you check, it'll be gone.
It never is. That sore clings like a parasite.

Finally, I am able to escape these creatures,
reaching a small, little town, shrouded in fog.
Sewage drains overflowing with blood,
mutilated corpses as commonplace as garden gnomes,
unnerving screams off in the distance.
Battered and broken, I will my body to overcome
following one of these shrieks into a dark alley.
I am unable to make out her face,
but this woman is cornered by three feral monsters,
without eyes, sharp, pointed claws, bodies stained red with blood
of their past victims.
Picking up a lead pipe,
I unleash primal brutality I never thought I was capable of,
obliterating the clawed creatures.
Finally letting down my guard, I turn to the woman
who shoots me, in the forehead, with a revolver.

My body is recovered, and a funeral is held.
Four people show up.
The preacher, my mom, dad, and sister.
After a very fire and brimstone sort of sermon
focusing on all the immoral deemed decisions
I have made throughout my life,
each member of my family gives their own "eulogy".
However, as opposed to high praise,
they each articulate how their quality of life
would significantly improve,
without me in it.
Sister saying how she can get all the attention,
mom saying how uplifting it will be to not have me
as a financial, emotional, and overall bothersome burden.
Dad says he can put all the belts, coat hangars, wrenches, bats away.
There is no one left for him to punish, to "put them in their place."
They light my casket on fire, cackling in euphoric laughter.

Then I wake up, if I'm lucky. I don't always make it to the end.

I never met my grandpa,
he fought in Vietnam.
He didn't die in battle.
When he got home,
he attempted to pick up the pieces,
of his shattered mind.

The unimaginable things he must have done
all for the sake of fighting for his country.
The cruelty he must have seen
all for a government squabbling.
To return, with angry faces meeting him,
as if it was his decision to go to resort to arms,
as if PTSD wasn't enough of a punishment.

He returned to his family
struggling to acclimate to the environment.
Tried to shake off
the horrific nightmares of war
that led to bloodcurling screams
keeping the entire block wide awake.

He returned to his job
construction work, paving roads
seeking solitary work,
afraid he would snap.
One day, he crashed.
Pinned into the machine
on a hot June day.

As the sun
baked the blood in his face
this man paid for whatever sins
he committed, and then some.
slowly, he inched his way to Death's doorstep,
with a crooked smile, and a guiltless heart,
finally having peace, in a life of turmoil.

I'm afraid too
I afraid that the only thing
Holding me together
Are all the broken pieces

I have spent so much time
Taping the smashed splinters
Into place
I have spent so many hours
Balancing all of the dust particles
On top of each other
Wedging them so carefully
So that each one supports another

I'm afraid that if I pull one out
And show you
They will all come
Tumbling down

You know when the sky turns
Greyish
Your skepticism kicks in
But it's not threatening yet
No, it's not even close to
Black
There is still that comforting
Blue twinge
The clouds are still
Puffy, pretty, perfect
And then
All of the sudden
Tiny drops of water begin to splatter the ground
But, they fall slowly
They aren't big enough to cause alarm
You laugh to yourself
Because this weather
It's comical
It doesn't make any sense
And you reassure yourself
With that very fact
It doesn't make sense
So it will stop
The sky still looks
Stable
The day still looks
Happy
Just a small drizzle
Soon it will dry up
There will probably even be a rainbow
You look forward to this
Beautiful display
Yes, this water
It will go away before we even realize
It's there

But what if those drops don't go away
What happens when the day turns to night
And the dark is electrified by bolts of lightening
So encompassing
You can feel the vibrations
Underneath every piece of skin
What happens when thunder collides with the heavens
Thunder
So deafening
The reverberations bash in the sides of your skull

What happens then?

But I mean
It's a fifty, fifty shot
It could go either way

It could be the edge of a massive storm
Or it could be the edge of
Nothing

Sometimes I really want to take a scalpel to my chest
And just start
Slicing

But that could be
Dangerous

You never know
What might come
Spurting out

You tell me,
I need to breath,
As you watch,
My rib cage heave.

There's comfort,
In your clouded eyes,
But I ignore,
Your feeble cries,
It's pity lined,
With bitter lies.

You tell me,
I need to breath,
I hold my breath,
And watch you leave.

*you tell me,
I need to breath,
And suffocate,
My self belief.

Four and a half children die
Each day
The statistics say

This is a terrible problem
You say
You urge your employees to listen
To listen well
To watch for the warning signs
To prevent it
Yes, please
This is a problem
Each day
Four and a half children die
Because of child abuse

What if I told you
Your problem is bigger
So much bigger
Exponentially larger

Yes,
I would argue
That number needs to be
Adjusted

More like
Hundreds of thousands
Of Children
Die
Each day

As they are
Neglected
When then they should be loved
Verbally torn down
When they should be built up
Touched
Where they shouldn't be touched
They die
Slowly, painfully
They are
Alienated
Slowly, painfully
They sink away
Flipping inside out
Caving in
Only in their very depths
Do they find anything
Even remotely resembling
Solace
They are
Confused
They are
Angry
They are
Alone

There is no one
No one to talk to
No one to trust

At some point
Their senses cease to exist
They stop tasting
They stop smelling
They stop seeing
They stop hearing
They stop

Feeling

And everything goes
Black and
Numb

So they stumble
Eyes closed
Arms flailing
Thrusting there head above the waves

Sure, they're still breathing
But they're not
Alive