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?”
pitweston
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