Take me off the pedestal
I am not what you see
That man's a miscreation
It's what i'd like to be

Take me off the pedestal
For it is far too high
For if I trip, slip, or fall
You'll think I was a lie

Take me off the pedestal
One cannot comprehend
To think 'tis where I stand
Make me not king, but friend

Take me off the pedestal
I've never felt so wrong
But please, oh please keep me in
your heart- that's right where I belong

Deep in the abysses of my brain
Stands, with a shovel, a tiny man.
When someone says those magic words:
“Dig a little deeper.” He gets to work.
Shoveling nonsense out of my mind
In another futile attempt to find
That something special, something unique
Those raw emotions that I just can’t reach
He looking for treasure, his never ending chore
No X to mark the spot, It’s not easy for sure.
He digs and digs for that perfect line
That’ll tie together what I write.
He’s hard at work with his shovel
I always give him so much trouble.
Looking for words with greater meaning
In a space that seems to be teeming
With silly thoughts and childish drivel
Stands The Little Digger Man With his shovel

I can't see me any more
or remember who I was
or understand what I am
or build and equate a plan
of what I will become.
Lost within,
desperate without.
Slipping with hourglass grains
getting squeezed though
an unavoidable hole.
I'm sinking,
to where,
who knows?
The walls offer no purchase
I'm falling.
Will it hurt when I land?

I am seated atop a salon chair,
Come hither merciless thread,
And rip out my upper lip hair,
Until my skin turns crimson red.
Pluck it all out,
From the corners of my mouth,
To the point below my nose,
While I hold a sturdy pose,
Or display a duck-faced pout.
Pluck it out from below my chin,
pierce all areas of my skin,
Shape my eyebrows; overgrown,
show the world, parts of my face they've never known.
Be a good thread and shred,
All unruly growth off my face,
Before it grows and spreads all over the place.

There in your eyes,
Is a reflection of me.
And you stare at skies
Like your ma did the sea.

And you tell stories like nana
Without the pauses.
And cringe like my brah
When I clean your bruises.

You laugh like a man
And you smile like my dad.
I don't understand
How all they had,

Got into a heart
As small as yours ,
And still makes me start
Just because,

You have a spark.
That lights the dark
And reminds my heart
Of a work of art.

Red splashes and dark
Finger marks
Of someone
More than anyone,

More than you and I
More than this love of mine.

This poem leaves me torn.
Because I'm your father.
But you haven't been born.
But I'm full of fear.

That you'll never see my reflection
In your eyes.
So here's my reflection
On your life.

So you'll understand.
Before your life began.
I saw your reflection.
I saw your perfection.
And loved everything about you.
Through our fathers' eyes I know you'll know it's true.

Words do not a writer make
Nor poems nouns or prose
But the heart that breaks for breaking sake
Beyond calling Rose a rose

It's not the nouns or adjectives
Or strings of sappy lines
It's seeing love where nothing lives
And seeing darkness shine

A writer sees beyond the words
But sees the great divide
Between what heart says and what is heard
Never satisfied

A writer does not fill the page
With words that others need
But the page the page is the stage
Where their emotion bleeds

Of the things I think a writer holds
You may disagree
But if your heart is moved to words so bold
A writer you may be

How come when people cry,
others that see them just keep walking by?
Where is heart and where is soul?
Is it a lost art and no more a goal?
Some may have hidden their pain inside,
with bitter, angry foolish pride.
Maybe they are fatherless or grew up poor,
maybe they are ill, resentful and sore.
Why do some hit, hurt and lie?
Why do some not even care to question why?
Scars and bruises wither away,
to see the light of a new day.
Why do some not care in an age so informative?
Maybe some are just too insensitive.

She writes like the grim reaper
About pain, loss and tortured souls
Yet she has the sweetest smile
That could make a broken man whole

She writes about the lonely girl
Who cries for her broken heart
She says she's never been in love
For her, lying seems like an art

She has a quirky sense of humour
Her laugh is a sweet melody
She write about being lost and alone
Shes always surrounded by family

She writes about the child that cries
While his parents fight downstairs
She's lives such a happy life
With no sign of pain and despair

Sometimes when she speaks to me,
She seems so young and naive
Her poems carry such soul and depth
That they came from her is hard to believe

How can she understand my darkness
If she's never felt pain or desolation?
Why do her words ring true to me
When I know it's just her imagination?  

Her sad rhymes always make me cry
I just can't figure her out
Is there some sorrow that she hides deep?
Or does she just twist her words around?

Can the city girl escape the city?
Can the gorgeous not be pretty?
Can the sarcastic not be witty?  

Can they undo what's been done?
Can the adventure not be fun?
Can the hunter sell his gun?

...... No.
They take it everywhere they go.