I'm a leader
Not a pleaser
I do things in the name of Me.

My father is a generous man.
Generous with his money,
And generous with his criticism.

My mother is compassionate, yet ignorant
Almost childlike,
And puts up with my father’s put-downs.

Over the years I have witnessed her tolerate the abuse
I try my hardest to just stand back
I know getting involved solves nothing at all.

I’ve learned that stirring the *** doesn’t always stop the overflowing.
Sometimes it’s the heat that needs to be turned down,
And adding my voice is like turning the stove on high.

Speaking of *** and water analogies
I can’t be true that a watched *** never boils
Because countless times I have seen my father mercilessly spout malicious things to her as if there wasn’t even a fly in the room.
Either he is unaware of his behavior
Or he is confident no one would dare to question his authority.

I hope for the sake of my mother, it isn’t the latter.

I don’t stand back out of fear
I’ve gone head to head with my father enough times to have a concussion.
In that regard, my father is fair
Lending me the equal share
To be his victim
Dodging judgmental and figurative swings.
Usually I am very good at defending myself
But even the best get blindsided
Even boxers get time out’s
A referee to call the cheap shots
And a doctor to stitch up the cuts

You get in the ring with my father
You go in alone
No sponsors, you’re solo.

I’ve never submitted into submission
Or developed passive aggression
Unlike my mom.

My dad and I
Never quit the fight,

I can admit I am no angel.
I’ve said some nasty things
Behave and say things driven by inner pain.
But unlike my father, I feel a great deal of remorse
Barely an hour later I’m beside myself with tears

Asking him to please forgive me
As if I’m confessing my sins to a priest
Almighty Father, please forgive me.
but it takes more than few Hail Mary’s and favors Until I’m worthy in his eyes again.

Over the years, my father has developed skills at the coyly hiding snarky comments
Able to say something insulting in public
And not even an eyebrow would be raised at his statement.
Strangers would conclude his behavior to be plain playful sarcastic banter.

Hah! Fooled you didn’t he?

And I would like to ask those observers and strangers,
Audience of any kind
Do you consider fire to be playful?
They might not understand,
Look at me confused and baffled
I would continue to explain
“A small fire of course,
Only a few burns here and there”
Speckled all across your skin
Looking like ripples in the ocean
“And a few just deep enough for a skin graph, but don’t worry, the skin might come back.”
For the skin that is permanently gone
Extra skin will be extracted from your backside
Replacing that ugly nose that stuck its business in the wrong place.

But what I wish, is to tell them this,
“Now when people see you
They can be reminded
Of the *** Face you really are.”

You have no right to tell a person whether their burn is justifiable to hurt or not.
I would show them the figurative burns on my arms, legs, cheek, back, and neck
From the literal words my father slapped.

And each burn hurt differently.
Some just a little
And some that hurt so bad, just looking at the scar, I can feel my skin begin to sizzle.
I would ask them to stand in as my double, my dummy really
Because that’s what they symbolize
A dumb somebody.

And I would ask them to take a few hits
While I sit back and observe
Saying not to complain, that it doesn’t really hurt.
The angry part of me wants to never come back
Keep you stranded there.
In the pit of my father’s fire
Burning in hell until relief can come
Or at least someone
With enough common sense and decency
To put out the fire they see.
But people never come, You’re stuck their for eternity.

Sometimes I wish I could have a break
Or someone to toss me a hose
Or a bucket filled with water
But people act like we live in a desert
Regulating help like water in a drought.
Asking them for a hand is like asking them to dump all their water into the dry cracked ground.

People hesitate to even give a smile
Something free.
Don’t ask people to spare you a nickel
I will spare you the answer they will give you:
No.
And that is if you’re lucky
People don’t even look at people anymore.
Shame, pride, nervous, shy
Who knows why.
But remember a time
When people look each other eye to eye

Shook hands for an agreement,
And actually kept it.
Now we need to sign contracts
For the most nonsensical things
Contracts for our contracts
Lawyers for our lawyers

People always covering their ***
From people who steal, and don’t know how ask.
No wonder we don’t look each other in the eye
Afraid to be hurt after so many lies.
We don’t have trust.
We don’t feel safe.

I know how that feels to be scared and unsafe.
Even this place
My home, meant to be a sanctuary
Not a factory where I am worked
Not a laboratory where I am analyzed.
Sometimes when I look through my window blinds
It reminds me of a prison
A room I am trapped inside.

So don’t patronize
My fear and my pain
My feelings are good enough as they stand
No matter where you might stand.
Each burn had their own type of hurt

Who are you decide that degree?
Especially when the burn
Happens to me.
Some still might disagree
Or refuse to see
The point I am trying to make.
But if you understand what I’m trying to say
If you ever see someone on fire
Don’t look away or stand to judge
Throw them hose or a water filled bucket.

People choose to give their opinions
When you never asked for them
It’s hard to have compassion
When it feels like you never win
It’s hard to hold onto the good
When you hands are tied behind your back
And life refuses to cut you any slack.

I need to take a break
Just a moment to breathe
I’m trapped within these walls
With people who can’t be please
It seems like nothing is done with any urgency.

No one to count on
If you want the work done
Everyone looking to cut corners
Even in conversation.

As if you’re in the way of their agenda and tasks
The questions they ask
About your day
Only have to do with what they want to say.

Conversation can’t be completed
Because people are always competing
To have the last word,
To be heard,
Even filling up the air time with uhms and errs
Reserving their speech

All you can do is listen and wait
And you begin to remember
You called them first
Barely able to spit in just a few words
You were the initiator, when did this reverse?

Now you regret ever calling at all
Thinking you’d be happy with silence
Than little fillers and empty language.

I once told a boy, who didn’t stop talking the moment we met
“You have been talking this entire time.”
I felt awful, like I was a little out of line.
But you should have seen what happened to his eyes,
It was like he snapped back to reality
Then quickly apologized, not even having realized
It was twenty-five minutes of a personal monologue.

Now I give most people the benefit of the doubt,
If after ten minutes I have said not a word
I’ll interject, and I’ve learned
There is no polite way to interrupt
The experiences I have had thus far
People didn’t even know what they were doing
Which to me, seems frightening.
These are the same people we see driving or operating.

Then some,
Just like the sound of their own voice
In those cases, they are a lost case

As a practical joke,
By them a voice recorder
Once you give it to them and they look a little confused
It will be an inside joke between me and you.

If some stories and poetry were so brave to tell me their truth, which I can relate to, maybe I could write something to save somebody.

Maybe, maybe.

I lack the bravery. It’s scary to show vulnerability in a world of people wearing metal masks, acting as if they have it all together.

I once told a woman at my work, “You know, I cry every night because I know I got problems, but I’m surrounded by people who pretend they have no problems at all. I think they need the most help because they don’t even know they need help.”

She just smiled and laughed, and said, “Oh, I hear you.”

For a moment I knew she understood what I meant.

I connected with her.

The desire is to connect with everyone, but instead of focusing on the “every”, which can seem overwhelming, I can focus on connecting with just that “one”.

Isn’t that what those authors I admire did as well? From their words I felt connected to them, and I am considered as “one”.

Why else do we post our work? Sure, I can say it feels great to process in written form, but the act of sharing the works sends the underlying message that I want to be heard and understood, by at least just one.

Interesting thoughts...
Who knows, I could be totally wrong.

The last thing I will say,
Remove the metal mask from your beautiful face.
Don’t be surprised if water cascades.
Your mask was a great shield,
But it's time to remove it
Let your face be revealed.

Happy face
Heavy heart
Master of words
But where to start?
All the things I could say
To make you stay
But our minds have decided for us today.

We speak
But who listens?
When we are pointed in every direction
It’s hard to navigate our own voice
When our internal compass broke
Many miles ago.
We would replace it
But some of us prefer to stay lost
Living by the signs others give.

Adults find it difficult to speak their truth
We could learn from our children
Who are confident in what they know.
Though their experience is little
Their answers are primal
Driven by instinct
Not what others will think.
In this case, less could be more.

More importantly, what they know is good enough
Sometimes not having all information
Does not make us ignorant
But willing to risk.

Life has no guarantees;
Even in the things that say what they mean
There beholds the possibly
It could lie or cheat.

When we rely on one answer
Our limitations are just that number.
The logic passed down
Is we should have a plan
Beg for a challenge
Say, my plan are no plans!

Live in the present
See what unfolds
You might be surprised by what was planned all along.

Not many people share the same amount of passion I feel.
It doesn’t mean it’s too much
But it sure feels lonely some days
Enough to where I want to throw it away
Because the love I have for life
Feels like so much more
Then what I get back.

I try not to focus on how
Much I receive, because
To over think in what I believe
Scares me, undoubtedly.  
To think I have been living
Wrong all this time
Can shoot the ****
Right out of my pants.
Which is unfortunate
Because I am on a budget
And these were on the only pants had.

I ignore the questions
And instead write a song, or a poem, or paint.
I’ve learned the hard way
That playing along with the mind games
Only drives my heart away
And invites fear to stay.

Sometimes the only way
To make it through the day
Is to take each situation as it comes
Rather than worrying what might happen.
I have a great imagination
Filled with ideas, insights, even rhymes!
But from the same hand that can hold
Or smack you cold
Across the cheek
My mind fabricates stories
Which kills creativity and breeds anxiety.

I once heard a monk say
That joy comes from being grateful
More so, living gratefully
And ceasing every opportunity
That life brings to our table.

But if life has all these opportunities for me
Why am I still unhappy?

Hopelessly searching for the answer
And looking all around
The answer was right in front me;
The table is empty
Only missing one piece
Me.

I stopped
Pulled up a chair
And just sat
Ending the complaint over what I don’t have.

The present will always provide
Just what I need
If I am willing to believe
I am right where I need to be.

I was always told
You look just like your mom
And I always hating hearing that
Because it felt like it stole thunder over my identity
I was a selfish spoiled daughter for thinking that then
Because I’d give anything to be compared to her again.

She is so selfless, compassionate, and kind
In fact I can recall there was the one time
I called her in tears because I forgot my lunch
And without hesitation she threw on her cape
Super mom was ready to save the day.

And she flew so fast
Because every second that passed
Her little girl was still hungry
And to her, any feeling that wasn’t smiles and laughter was unacceptable.

And her giving kept going
Because in my brown bag lunch
She would leave a note
With enough X’s and O’s to play tic tack toe.

I am not my mother
But I care like she does
And I am not my father
But I speak with his wit
I am an only child
But I am not the only child
Who feels lonely from time to time.

In fact I can recall there was the one time
When I realized what it felt like to be out casted
At only age four
I was stricken to glasses
Thick wired frames with lens that were massive.

Between you and me
Something about glasses
Makes kids really mean
I was called four eyes among other things
I would shout:
“You’re the one who needs glasses”
I would plea:
“I only have two eyes, butthead
Clearly you can’t see!”

I can look back and laugh
Insults were less personal back in 3rd grade
Entering High School
Things drastically change
Name calling became tailor made
A bully’s personal game
An ego’s selfish gain.

Kids made sure to hit you hard and fast
Sometimes it hurt so bad
I would go home with whip lash
From being verbally bashed.

But my mom never saw me cry
I made sure to hold back the tears until I was home
And finally when alone,
Door shut and locked
I’d lie on my stomach
Face down on a pastel comforter
Bed being my only source of comfort
Sobs and tears would soak up the sheets
Salty drops representing defeat.

My father would gently knock on my door and ask
“Are you alright?”
I’d muster up the strength I had left
To force a smile and say, “I’ll be right out.”

Then I’d turn over and lie on my back
Watching the ceiling fan circle its arms around my room
The cool breeze soothed on my red face
Like aloe on a bad beach sun burn.

I’d turn on my side and sigh
Shifting my weight, and getting ready to stand
Be a man, like my dad always wanted.

My feet hit the cold floor and now it was time
To go out and fake it like I have before
Wishing the insults remained at eyes of four.