nothing used to bother me
until you came along
now there is something missing
an empty space I cannot fill myself

of all the days of my life
my greatest day
will be the day when things can't get worse

for years I have been silent
my true thoughts hidden from everyone

I can't take it anymore
I need someone who will listen

My father was famous for
noticing endings
admitting defeats
accepting declines
moving along
being a good, end-of-game sport.

Sometimes
he’d spark a surprise
come back—
an evening of the score.
“The folks are as good
as the people” he’d declare.

But as life
invariably turns out,
the folks are
   rarely
            as good
                         as the people
     the pitcher as the batter
     the husband as the wife
     the striker as the goalie
     the salesman as the prospect
     the child as the parent
     the ying as the yang.
In competitions someone
always conquers, even if just a bit;
the other
always loses, even if just surface wounds—
death always comes
natural or quick.

Then you
know:
“It’s all over
        but the crying.”

Dad,
I’ve been crying,
but when will I know
“it’s over?”
And, since some “folks” aren’t
so good after all, please tell:
        How victorious is victory?
        Who is defeated in defeat?
        What is the final score?
        Who won again?

The true score for when it’s over is
perhaps how
we make sense of the endings,
                                                    beginnings,
                                                                ­          and
                                 rebeginnings
                of life
shared and                                                              ­                             solitary.

So where is that game clock
that tally board, that ledger to
release my game
announce my endings
settle my scores

so I can do my crying
and
prepare
for next season?

        18.i.11

And I can't fight it.
I know how I feel, but never would I say it.
I,
I can't.
But I care about him.
Truly,
Deeply,
Care.
And her?
She wants a hand to hold,
An arm for her shoulder,
And open arms for her embraces.
And he cares for her.
Truly,
Deeply,
Cares.

And so do I,
But differently.
She's his,
He's hers,
She's my best friend,
And I want him to be mine.

The classic story that ends in two friends agreeing to never fight over guys.
So we won't fight over guys,
*But how can I fight how I feel?

You're always happy.
It's a front.
It's a mask for the hurt that hides beneath those cold brown eyes.
Your mouth smiles but your eyes do not,
Nor does your heart.
It frowns and sighs deeply,
Longing for the trust and love it deserves.

Always happy,
Always nice,
Always there.
Doormat.

I know there's more,
But everyone uses you to wipe off their ***** feet between the outside and the inside.
You know, and think hey, at lease I'm not a toilet!
The optimist,
But why?

I saw it.
You smiled, but for a second it faulted.

All of the hurt,
Hate,
And Hard work,
Hides a soul.
It desperately wants, it needs outoutout,
And all it gets is trappedtrappedtrapped.
And it all hides,
In your sad brown eyes,
Behind that hopeless smile.