When I was young

My Daddy read me stories as I drifted to sleep

And I watched in awe

as the peaceful melody of words evolved into symphonic wonder;

a castle, a wish, a hope shone in my Daddy’s eyes.


When I was just

A little bit older

My Daddy lost the solace of words,

For no stories could quell the demons

Ravaging his head.


When he died

There was no happy ending to be found

And I couldn’t find my Daddy anywhere in my heart.

So I turned to my brain

And I picked up a pen.

I told the story of a man who died too young,

With a daughter too young to understand

That life really is short,

And that death is as sudden and as harsh as lightning in dry heat.

I wrote out the tears that I was too afraid to let others see;

My pages dripped with blood that was yet to be shed.


When I was young,

I was an old soul,

And words became a lighthouse

In a sea of dark thoughts.


I wrote poetry every day,

Tracking my grief and checking my pulse;

After all, they say,

“There is no art without tragedy,”

And how tragic it seemed.


When I grew old,

I still wrote my poems

As notes to myself,

As stepping stones into maturity.


When I was young,

My Daddy died—

But his burning passion for art

Lingered and ignited within me.


I write to feel safe.

I write to feel love.

I write to feel the world being lifted from Atlas’ shoulders.


My Daddy would be proud.


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