Poem: Memories Lost

I get bored often. I like to write poems. I never see my poems as being anything but simple. Usually, my poems are sad and depressing. This one is no different. It’s sad and depressing. I can’t write happy poems. Really, I can’t. I don’t have it in me. I don’t know what love is and no, I don’t want you to show me.

My father wept

And I watched him cry

As my mom was laid to rest.

I saw his eyes,

All red inside,

The stillness of his chest.

I was too young

To remember her

No memories to recall.

Did she kiss my cheek?

Or play hide and seek,

Did she play with me at all?

I questioned often

If she taught me things,

Like teaching wrong from right?

Did she wipe my chin,

Or tuck me in,

Or bring me milk at night?

Did she read me stories?

Or sing lullabies to me?

Did she know me all to well?

Did she teach me to talk?

Or teach me how to walk?

did she teach me how to spell?

So my dad raised me

And I thank him

In a number of ways.

For those three words,

Some find absurd,

I say to him each day.

He taught me things

That I’ll always know

That I’ll soon share with my son.

From lessons learned,

And respect I earned,

A father’s work is never done.

I learned to fish

And ride a bike

And learned to catch a ball.

To fly a kite,

And treat a gal right,

He seemed to know it all.

He taught me sports

And he taught me jokes

And how to fire a gun.

How to drive,

And give high fives,

And how to jog and run.

I learned about girls

And learned about sex

And he taught how to love.

We shared a beer,

And we shared some tears,

We prayed to God above.

Now I’m married

And have wife

And a son of all my own.

Though my dad,

Might look all sad,

He knows he’s not alone.

I am there for him

To thank him

For all the help he shared.

For all the knowledge,

I will acknowledge,

And all the years he cared.

I went to my dad

To thank him

For he raised a decent man.

In his chair,

He has an empty stare,

I take him by the hand.

Thank you, dad.

I say to him

And hope for a reply

For what i see,

When he looks at me.

Is nothing in his eyes.

I say his name

And hope for something

A sign that he’ll pull through.

He makes a fist

And grabs my wrists.

And asks me, “Who are you?”

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I like food. I like the smell of cinnamon.

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