How

I don’t know how to let you go and live without you here.

I don’t know how to keep you close and let you in for fear.

I don't know how to talk to you or how to help you hear.

I don’t know how to trust your words, so different from your deeds.

I don’t know how to tell you all the little wants and needs.

I don’t know how to let you help, to let you take the lead.

I don’t know how to need you,only that I do.

I only know I want you, and I hope you want me too.

Atonement (WIP)

Sorry only says so much, and often it's just not enough.
There are some things you cannot mend, lines that just refuse to bend;
Truths you simply can't deny, lies it takes too much to hide.
Sorry only says so much, and often it's just not enough.
It's the things you do to show you care,
the ways you love and live that bring to bear
your true regret.
Sorry only says so much, and often it's just not enough.
You can't atone alone.

Never Enough

I’ll never be the son you wanted,
The man I should have been.

I’ll never be the chosen one,
The one with thinner skin.

I’ll never be enough for you,
Because I am not him.

It wouldn’t matter if I were,
You’d find some other sin.

I can’t compete in life or death.
I’ll never, ever win.

Home

Home is where hope, hugs, and high expectations live.
It’s the smell of chicken baking in the oven, bread rising on the counter, and Pine Sol mopped floors.
It’s the sound of brothers playing, mama singing, and the soft and happy silence after bed time.
Home is where heart, health, and silly jokes make everything else ok.
It’s the feel of clean sheets, splashing in the tub, and Legos buried in the carpet under bare feet.
It’s the sight of piled laundry, artwork on the fridge, and pictures on every wall.
Home is where messes are made, booboos are kissed, and you always have a place.
It’s the taste of success, of failure in spite of your best efforts, and mama’s apple pie.
It’s the promise of acceptance, the comfort of routine, and knowing you are wanted.
Home is where you love, are loved, and want to be.

Blinding Damage.

He stood there, bright eyed and tow headed
singing boldly and beaming with pride.
He tried his best to sing all the words,
keeping time with the kids who knew,
the kids who fit.
He couldn't see that anything was wrong.
He clutched that book, shouted that song,
and connected with the world in new and awesome ways.
And you missed it.
You sat there, angry and pig-headed,
blinded by your baggage and drowning in your damage.
You tried your best to form the words
inflicting pain and causing hurt,
a hurt you just won't own.
You couldn't see that you were wrong.
You shut your heart, and closed your mind,
And refused to see him meet the world in new and awesome ways.
And you missed it.
You missed another opportunity.
You missed another milestone.
You missed another smile, another joy, another day.
You missed it all.
But I,
I was there.

Should

I should have known better
than to trust you with my heart.
I should have known better
than to give you the truth.
I should have known better
than to hope you'd know what to do.
I should have known better
than to make you so important.
I should have known better,
but I didn't.
I trusted you with my heart,
and you broke it.
I gave you the truth,
and you made it a weapon.
I hoped you'd know what to do,
and you failed to do it.
I made you important,
and you made me invisible.
I didn't know better when I should have,
but I do now.

Where I Come From*

I come from many streets that all lead nowhere,
and houses that were never ours, from moving boxes and strange places and customs not my own.
I come from babies crying and mama singing,
the smell of cakes in the oven and the sound of her sewing machine.
I come from Loretta and Raymond,
Soldiers, each in their own way.
I come from Legos, monster trucks, and Franken-Barbies,
wrestling, sand boxes, swings, and dancing to the music in our heads.
I come from salsa, beans and rice, tortillas on the comal,
and my mother's lasagna too big for the pan, but only on holidays.
I come from "You can, and you will", "They don't know you", and "Don't let them win."
I come from a place where knowledge is power, the best things come from nothing, and everything is earned.
I come from Pride and Tenacity.
I come from a place rooted in love and family
a place that is constantly changing and growing
a place that thrives on togetherness and accomplishment.
That, is where I come from.

*This was a writing exercise in a seminar I attended last weekend. It's based on the poem "Where I Come From" by F. Isabel Campoy seen in the Second Creative Activity found here. I liked it so thought I'd share.