Jul 2012
I opened this card, to write to you, a birthday wish or two
but my pen touched the paper, and there wasn't anything I could do...
I felt the need to try and tell you,
about all of the things you do...
about your rolls at home,
or the streets you've roamed,
or the way you don't have the slightest clue
(although soon I am reminded, indeed you actually do...)
I wanted you to know,
I admire your mundane, unobtrusive, unforgiving glow
I admire your leadership, in an unbiased, newborn, kind of way.
I tell you Thanks, for more, than when you hold open the door...
Which you would probably do... Without anyone asking you...
I used to write stories about what everyone was doing wrong...
Then I would talk to you and write a poem,
and it was more like a textbook, written with life...
and in life, the reality of death, and all that death meant.
there was a calming sensation that I finally kept...
from all that I know, and from all that I've seen,
which is my only tangible reality...
I have come to the conclusion that you are a man from their dreams...
The Gods, and the Goddesses, that mythologically once sat around a table and hand picked each perfect little atom into what would one day become the likes, of you and me.
Inspiring beyond comprehension the only thing I can do is let the pen lend...a few words... or phrases... heavier than mentioned my heart races with tension when I try and envision that dimension and remember that lesson, about doing good with the time we're given...
I stop, and I smile. And I say thank you again, because you're the most refreshing of men. You are touching lives, and I want you to know, I am blessed, and speechless, and full of pride to stand here telling you Happy Birthday, tonight.
If ever I gave someone the feeling you give me, my only hope is that their pen becomes just as heavy, and they write about what it meant to them, to have a new place, for a life long friend.
but my pen touched the paper, and there wasn't anything I could do...
I felt the need to try and tell you,
about all of the things you do...
about your rolls at home,
or the streets you've roamed,
or the way you don't have the slightest clue
(although soon I am reminded, indeed you actually do...)
I wanted you to know,
I admire your mundane, unobtrusive, unforgiving glow
I admire your leadership, in an unbiased, newborn, kind of way.
I tell you Thanks, for more, than when you hold open the door...
Which you would probably do... Without anyone asking you...
I used to write stories about what everyone was doing wrong...
Then I would talk to you and write a poem,
and it was more like a textbook, written with life...
and in life, the reality of death, and all that death meant.
there was a calming sensation that I finally kept...
from all that I know, and from all that I've seen,
which is my only tangible reality...
I have come to the conclusion that you are a man from their dreams...
The Gods, and the Goddesses, that mythologically once sat around a table and hand picked each perfect little atom into what would one day become the likes, of you and me.
Inspiring beyond comprehension the only thing I can do is let the pen lend...a few words... or phrases... heavier than mentioned my heart races with tension when I try and envision that dimension and remember that lesson, about doing good with the time we're given...
I stop, and I smile. And I say thank you again, because you're the most refreshing of men. You are touching lives, and I want you to know, I am blessed, and speechless, and full of pride to stand here telling you Happy Birthday, tonight.
If ever I gave someone the feeling you give me, my only hope is that their pen becomes just as heavy, and they write about what it meant to them, to have a new place, for a life long friend.
