Speak, Little one. Before it's too late.
Before you learn too much, and decide not to say what you're really thinking.
Before you live in fear of what others will think of the words you say.
Speak, Little one. Paint us pictures of your young, hapless mind.
Influenced only by apple sauce, ******-Doo, the color blue.
You carry with you only whats left of your first blanket.
Sometimes the questions of the Unknown, as "Why" "What" and "How" appear more often than not.
You cling to its cotton, frayed edges. Not knowing how long it will be before it's forgotten.
Like your words, the little things, they come and go.
Be swift, Little one. Return to your fort between the living room book case and the television.
Constructed eloquently of blankets, pillows, and my leather jacket, it is safe.
Speak, Little one, for soon you will outgrow your fort, and become part of a world that's not
Continue to speak, little one, as your words will grow in confidence and importance
as you grow so abruptly and follow no plotted coordinates.
And eat, little one, and clear all of your plate,
So you can get back to speaking, before its too late.

The back porch is quiet as they stare out into the well groomed yard,
the beautiful sunrise has been captured reluctantly by the clouds
as a light rain and thunder in the distance breaks the beautiful silence.

She holds her " #1 Mom" mug with two hands
sipping her coffee quietly, silently, non-violently,
as if to avoid startling the birds of summer.
Birds, they bathe without disruption, because this morning,
Predators have turned Peaceful.

As the breeze sways the hand crafted wind chimes,
The diegetic music seems objective as he turns from page to page
The Sunday paper filled with stories of violence and hate
crimes committed with hands that aren't big enough to carry the burden
which is created by taking the life of another, including most recently,
both sisters and brothers, sons killed by their mothers, they're monsters.

but Here, on a Sunday morning, printed words are as close
as violence will ever get to their home. For every man who chooses to be
A Predator, to take the life of another, they know of at least
Two Lovers, a #1 Father and a #1 Mother.
Sitting on the back porch as the rain slows to a halt,
Tomorrow is Monday, taken with a grain of salt.

You want to know what I’m thinking about.
I couldn’t tell you my last thought before it skipped out
Of my head and rolled on the cold tiled floor,
Lingered no longer than a second and made its way to the door.
Out into the car, where it wouldn’t stay for long.
Like the tune on the radio, my girl’s favorite song.

Every scent, every memory, is linked to a thought.
Wasted dollars and cents; resentment of the lessons incorrectly taught.
It takes just a little bit of time. Think of every thought as an investment,
with 84,600 seconds in the day, the number of the thoughts that came and went
Like escaping from a hideaway you end up on the highway, heading north
processing the next move that you’ll make, setting a course
the thought then is to pick up speed or to slam on the breaks,
is this the high road or is this nothing but another mistake?

Those which are made, and the dues that are paid
you go all in when what you need is the Ace of Spades.
because you don’t control The cards which are laid on the table,
it just matters that you do what it takes make yourself stable
capable of making moves, escaping from the captivity of the mind,
and the words and how they make a path, either curved or  in a straight line,
burn some bridges. When you speak, if thoughts aren’t aligned into words,
the mind gets intertwined and confused and it hurts,
leaving you livid, unsure if life’s worth living, just spinning,
like a top that won’t drop until your heart stops.

But then tip-tap of rain drops the windshield bring you back to solid ground,
when you realize you were thinking and you couldn’t hear a sound.
The windshield wipers furiously working to keep it clear,
of the droplets that explode aggressively like thoughts of surfacing fear.
The point is I never know what I’m thinking about
until the new thought’s started and the last has checked out.
So don’t ask me questions and I won’t tell you a lie,
but I am always thinking, throughout the day, one thought at a time.

I tear out my heart and I place it eloquently on the page.
Piece by piece, I break it down like the history channel in a documentary on the golden age.
The chunks of raw emotion show up in the form of black and blue rage.

You can’t see it through the thin sheet of paper, but you can feel it if you’re careful.
How hard is it to see how someone is feeling when its far more than just a handful.
Every feeling that they’ve had in their winding past is strewn across the page
Like blood splatter on wall left after getting popped with a 12 gauge.

Organized by line and by stanza, yet you’re blind to it all.
You’re incapable of seeing how it looks when I fall.
Yet you still remain beautiful in my eyes and that’s a miracle in itself.
The only trust I have in this world lies in my family and this pen, while you’re placed harmlessly in a frame on the left side of the shelf
As I write I feel the grip on the pen getting tight
like the damp air setting in with the darkness of night.
It is but another image that I scribble across the page,
an outlet for the increasing, on-setting rage.
The words on the page don’t get demoralized once they’re written.
They’re permanent, so stands my love for you, though six times forgiven.
I don’t know why and I don’t know how but your love is what I want and I need it now.
I can forever write these lines and build images that will remain
until I either die or they are destroyed in vein.

But my words they will forever be and scrambled within this page you can find the characteristics that are built like cement inside of me.
No matter the situation, I’ll still have the same smile or grin,
no matter what mood I am actually in.
Because the world, on the surface,
is better off when I walk along its pathways with purpose.

I feel that if I don’t I will crumble.
The point of this script is that this pen will not stop or stumble
until I run of ink and dispose of it. Use it I will and I plan to make the most of it.
It’s a joke to continue the love I thought was real,
walking together behind an impenetrable shield.
But now you’ve gotten up and left,
this pen I write with is all I’ve got left
so if you want me in the future, grab a surgeon and sutures.  
Pick up all the pieces off the ground and off this page and especially my heart.
Sew them back into my body, You better be sorry, cause I’m sending you back to Start.

The blue freeze pop seemingly stains the boy’s lips as he exits the kitchen,
Quickly employed is the process of melting on this hot summers day. At five years old, he
takes the steps down towards the pool deck foot by foot, holding the railing as if he had never taken a step in his life.
The world is his, not existing past the edge of the yard, which is safely guarded by a picket fence. The sun shines down aggressively, reflecting the bright orange color of his water-wings on his face, his blue eyes still vibrant and innocent as he squints to maintain his focus.
As he browses the surface of the pool I can feel him contemplating his next move as he watches his younger sister. The three year old is naturally processing; questioning my ability to catch her if she decides to take what seems to be her fifth leap of faith since this morning, yet the smile on her face hasn’t changed.

He grasps a water gun, says “fight with me junior”
He, being the only one armed, I say, “Let’s find a game we can play together”
He shrugs as he once again realizes the existence of his sister, and ponders what could be next. I splash him once and he hurriedly discards the plastic freeze pop sleeve on a reclining chair, left behind like the activities of yesterday.
Fittingly, the sister has the knack to explore, like Dora, the character she admires and adores.
Without speaking they move together towards the emerald green raft, and together they drag it to the edge of the pool.

“Here” the boy said.
“Yeah. Here!” she exclaims with a childish grin.  
“Good idea” I reply.
They look at each other as if they had won a prize, then silently exchanging looks before the boy takes charge.
He jumps on the raft wildly and she follows in tow, but with the same caution that she had had just moments ago.
They sit together, they laugh, they smile they play, innocently, before the stresses of life can attack and grab hold of the loving relationship that they currently share.
I find that the simple pleasures of life are as free for today,
As are the smiles that both of the children convey.
There is nothing in the world that I’d trade for this beautiful summer display,
and I cherish every single second that I spent on this day

Some see Life is a puzzle put together piece by piece. Each eventually fits together.
like snowflakes, many slot beside one another quickly, but some seem like they take forever.
With each new journey and new day, you add another piece to the puzzle.
By the end of each month or at the turn of the year you turn back to see the picture,
The painting on that canvas that we call life. With our back turned to the rest of the world
we work tirelessly to make sure the puzzle is completed in an effort to impress those impressionable.
We miss out on the leaves falling from the trees in the crisp air of the fall,
The fresh cut grass as the spring spawns from the dark dreary winter
Some fight tirelessly, to inlay the pieces as if they were creating a road by which to travel.
Relax. Step Aside. Let the pieces fall together as you simply tag along for the ride
Regardless of the moves you make, the pieces you choose, the path you take.
All of the pieces are already in the box, 500 or 1000 pieces of a pre-determined fate.

The trees change to colors, from summer green in the fall.
If one were to topple over, would you hear it at all?
The weather turns brisk and summer nights get shorter
As we transition into fall, no more 2 A.M pizza on the corner.
The college students and foreigners return to their lifestyle
While the graduates and locals enjoy their own space for a while.
As the mild fall nights seem to fold quickly into winter,
Arrives the frozen blankets of snow as the lips begin to splinter.
As the snow piles up, and firewood stacks begin to dwindle
You can see on Christmas morning when the fires of love rekindles.
Through the bay window, the couple snuggled up, smile on the kids’ face
Tinsel, wrapping paper and presents, strewn all over the place.
But as Santa arrives on Christmas eve and disappears deeply into the night
as does the cold winter transform into the bright spring light
As baseball arrives, the smell of fresh cut grass is prevalent
Makes everyone forget all of the snow that came and went
As the temperature begins to rise, so does the anticipation of summer heat
The kids nearly out of school, as it comes to a close they can’t sit in their seat.
But this comes to an end faster than each of the other seasons
with fireworks, restaurants, and spending money without reason.
Summer flings, bar crawls, and over-crowded beaches
It feels like it will never end, as the hangover preaches.
Three months feel like one long day,
As the summer nights begin to fade away,
Back to where this poem started it all,
With the green of the trees morphing into the colors of fall.