I don't have any excuses for my ****-stained existence
I never doubted my Father's love
My Mother practices gentle sainthood without a hint of judgement
The children are top shelf human blessings to humanity
I am told I am loved and sometimes I almost believe it

The best I can come up with is that we all keep secrets from one another
Which is another way of saying we don't know one another at all
Maybe all of us are living in so much pain the only thing we know is to build walls around our selves to keep some semblance of sanity
I make no excuses I can't bring myself to say a ******* thing

If you knew me
All of me
Inside and out
Would you love me more or less
If I let you see every thought
And turned it over to show its ***
Would you perhaps reel in horror
At the way the aching sacred
And the ******* profane
Live inside me like good and bad twins

after my Father died my Mother began writing poems spelling out her pain one letter at a time making the earth move beneath her feet so she could breath again

I never wrote a poem until I fell into love and all of a sudden the shoreline was mad for the ocean and the waves kept pounding mindlessly wanting to release life into her

all the years of pain and love and destruction stored up inside words written in ancient, exotic languages waiting to be translated and released a strange bile of life waiting to love and be loved again