My father used to be a stranger
occupying the same four walls I sheltered in
Occasionally offering me a tea
But forgetting I don’t drink milk.

He introduced me to the feeling of rage.
A mechanical voice box goading chemical reactions,
My catalyst, if you will.

Now we drink oat lattes together
And swear to fill the silence,
But it’s comfortable.

And when he messing up acronyms,
I correct him.

Because you sang to me when I could not sleep; because you held me when I needed it; because of the years of laughing and crying and other lovely and terrible emotions I see in the lines etched in your face; because you never once held me back, never once doubted me or my own path; because you never let all of the painful moments and mistakes I had pass without showing me what God wanted to teach me; because you accept my flaws, accept my needs, and push me to realize I am worthy of love and happiness; because you gave me the strong belief system that I rely on daily; because you showed me what a healthy family is, striking the dream of growing my own one day into my heart; & because you are my mom and dad; one I share your namesake, the other made me your spittin' image, and when I hear my name, or see my image in the mirror, I can't help but feel you close to me, and no matter the distance, I feel you holding me when I need it, and hear you singing to me when I cannot sleep.

I don’t think I’m in denial anymore… but sometimes I guess I almost just forget. Like I’ll just randomly see or hear something that reminds me of you and then I remember a memory of us together— and then all of a sudden it’s like it hits me all over again and I realize I’ll never see you again… and it’s just such a gut wrenching thought. I wonder if I’ll remember the sound of your voice or how you used to light up when you laughed; that large, bowl full of jelly Santa laugh you had! I miss it more than I ever thought possible. It’s so strange to think you’re really just not here; not part of this world anymore. Forever is a very long time to not see someone or talk to them again… it’s a scary, vast amount of space and time that seems almost empty in your absence.

It almost doesn’t feel real sometimes, though the necklaces and box that have what is left of you physically, remind me otherwise. I wish you were here. I can’t remember the last time we had a proper conversation, or even just a visit. Covid really messed that up for us… I wish I could have gone to see you. I wish I could have spoken to you more. I hope you knew I loved you and that I always have and always will. You have left an ache in my heart that I don’t think will ever be fully healed. I know you didn’t mean to and you would hate for me to feel this way, but I just miss you and wish you could have stayed.

I hope you’re happy wherever you are out there. I hope it’s beautiful and free from any pain. I hope it’s everything you wished for and more. I hope you come visit and check in sometimes. I hope you know how much I miss you.

Love always,
Papas sunshine ☀️

Soul Blind Pt. 2
by Ryan P. Kinney

"Dad, Why do you look like you're crying?"

"Oh, you know. Sad things."

"Don't be sad, be happy."

"Both of those are always about you."

"Why?"

"Because when you are not here, I'm sad."
"When you are, I'm happy."

The world doesn’t know it needs setting right
but we do it anyway
against bucolic backgrounds,
corners of this sceptered isle
known only to types who like to ramble

point to point meticulously planned
by his draughtsman’s hand
our mouths and minds driving us more than legs
words to square away despair at the world
or delight in some magical new tech
to save it

these are footsteps I’ve always followed
always will
despite a mardy heel drag  in my teenage years
the muscle memory - one foot, then the other -
cannot be unwritten
even as knees now complain otherwise

What left of me
Is my scattered words
Here and there
They don't mix and match anymore
They're just a floating words
No flows, no directions
I lost you.
I lost them.

What left of me
Is my scarred heart
To write is to force to accept.
But finding my words back
Is not accepting I lost you
I thought it would ****
But only when I write
I will never lost you.

You speak of change constantly.
Like Flux capacitors are sold in stores.
Trying to mend past and future selves.
Trusting that they might collide on a single scope.
And STOP.
Is this pleasing.
Easing into planned mediocrity.
Dancing to tunes with broken strings.
Laughing at hardship.
Hoping it's seen as resilience.
Then wake to cold sweat in the night.
Running from a dreamscape.
To escape.
But still commemorate thought.
Making the real.
Less.
Than..
...
I step on forgotten land mines.
In my mind.
Creating a backdraft of emotion.
Spent years putting out these flames.
And even longer letting the brush burn.
Is control then the illusion.
Or am I just.
Constantly.
Waking.