The first poem I had ever written
hangs in a frame in the den.
My father shows it off proudly,
I just think it's lousy.
Did you read it?
It wasn't for you.
I was a junior,
he filled my life with humor.
Could it have been about you?
Would I still roll my eyes
and constantly ask my dad why
he has to show it around?
Now I write mostly about you
and this constant feeling
of heartbreak that I go through.
They say life isn't fair.
Looking back at your stare,
I can now only agree.