The words I’d say to an unborn son.

If you’re not ready to let go,

then don’t.

Hold on as long as you need,

and then some.

These are words I’d say,

to an unborn son.

If it seems repetitive,

that’s good.

If it hurts in a hundred different ways,

it’s supposed to.

If you don’t want to smile,

let them see you frown.

These are the words,

I’d say.

Does it get easier,

at times.

Should you forget,


Is it your fault,


The words I’d say are these.

Life will kick your ass.

Love will break your heart.

Death will drug your senses.

With the strength of a mother’s love,

I would say.

You are your father’s child,

but make no mistake,

you are not your father.

I think I’m literally starting to get it.

I could say

I’m hunched


I’m seated kind of

lazily – leg on couch

neck bent, ankle

sprain elevated

on green and white pillowcase –



with a headache

from late payments

unpaid bills

and paranoia,

that could all sound

so sweet, so elegant

like the sound of a typing machine,

if only I was still a romantic


I’d use big words to describe my feelings


for today

the clouds literally fill the sky,

there’s no check in the mail,

and I’ve got more work to do

at the finish

of this


You’re never completely alone.

Allow me my sadness today.

We can talk tomorrow.

As you walk away, we

die a little more – separate machines.

But take care knowing, if

you decide to speak.

We can talk today.



It’s clear that you are trying.
But things have changed,
haven’t they?
You have changed.

And that’s a good thing,
change is good.

But it’s clear, from us
looking in
that you aren’t quite yourself
you aren’t quite as we remembered.

And if you are,
then clearly we too, have changed.

But we haven’t changed,
not really, in the sense
that your new found glory
has taken control.

And if I’m wrong, tell me.
Tell me something beyond common sense.

It’s crystal clear,
isn’t it?
Us know-it-alls, know it all.
So for now, you’re out of the club.

And that’s a good thing, rest,
because we all come back eventually.