To Bailey
What up cousin? It’s been a  while since we’ve spoken..
I’ve been tryin to keep my mind focused and stayin open..
tryin to figure out how to rebuild my heart again now that it’s broken..
hopin and prayin to some god that it’s all a dream an I’ll be awoken..

But I’m not an ignorant or irrational man, so it’s back to life as I know it..
now I sit here with pen in hand, talking to another lost loved one as a poet..
*******, every time it seems to get a little harder and harder to be stoic..
I do it for you, but my choice would have been to find a rock and hide far below it..

But I’ve held you down, an showed the world a face with a sculpted smile..
Meanwhile inside I strong armed my stomach to prevent the expulsion of bile..
mind racing, god ******!!! Just 29 years is nowhere near a long enough while!!
and to think, you barely even got to spend 3 of those with your child..

It makes me want to shout to the stars and curse our own existence..
I guess I learned I can’t box god due to something about my arms and the distance..
so I’ve given up being angry about it and stopped my resistance..
but the one thing it’s affected more than any other is my persistence..

From time to time I’m gonna ask someone “has anyone told you they loved you today?”
and if they say no, I’ll be the first person to show them a sincere display…
YOU taught me that bailey, and no matter what, I’ll never let it slip away…
I can’t thank you enough for your life, I wouldn’t even know how to repay!

It’s those small perfect lessons we can all take from your life…
I couldn’t even begin to tell them all in the course of one night…
you were an amazing person to anyone who met you, a true delight..
people called you a shiner, a catalyst, a loving father, and a white knight…

everyone had a story of how you had given them inspiration..
I can’t thank you enough on behalf of the world for your donations!
I’m glad I could finally write this letter to show my appreciation..
the words had been escaping me with some trepidation..

I love you Bailey, always have and always will!!
I can’t believe you’re gone but I carry on still…
I soldier up when I need to then settle down to chill…
I’ll see you when I see you, you know the drill…

Rest In Peace: Bailey Paul McKeon-Phillips

I'm no writer.  I'm too logical

Sometimes I wish I could just lay my

head down on a piece of paper

and have my thoughts flow out onto it

like water

filling the emptiness

I               want to swim in my own head
I               want to remember things I knew
I               want to seep into my memories
I       want         to break my pattern of logic

I'm getting closer every day

I feel the box cracking

But then I fall back into line
But then I fear criticism
But then I'm apprehensive
But then I remember

I'm no writer.

I walk around from place to place
and I see beauty
and I **** my head
and I think

and I go back home
and I find my mirror
and I touch my face
and I fix my hair
and I fix my stance
and I straighten my skirt

and I think I need new
and I spend my quarters
and I hope new things make me

shiny

and I hope you like shiny.

Five bedroom house, in estate
BMW, best of late
Cocktail wife, with breast inflate
Kids at play, on playmate
Mr. Jones, my best mate
Repossession of cars, on that date

A victim of my ego, I’ve become

Before dawn, on treadmill I run
Contracts, forecasts, reports my day begun
Sorry, I’ll be late, for supper ***
At home, after the sun
I promise, tomorrow, we’ll play my son

A victim of my ambition, I’ve become

Almost all, my hair turned grey
Its ulcers, that’s what the doctor say
My secretary, she led me astray
For another drink, I will stay
Tonight alone, in my house I lay

A victim of myself, I’ve become

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village, though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound’s the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

For many long years I've been trying
to master the fine art of flying.
But each day I have found
myself stuck on the ground,
so I gave up and that's why I'm crying.

The fruit rolled by all day.
They prayed the cogs would creep;
They thought about Saturday pay,
And Sunday sleep.

Whatever he smelled was good:
The fruit and flesh smells mixed.
There beside him she stood,--
And he, perplexed;

He, in his shrunken britches,
Eyes rimmed with pickle dust,
Prickling with all the itches
Of sixteen-year-old lust.