This Is

This is

This is not to say
That you won’t mess up;
But it is only after that
Will you learn to step up;

This is not to believe
That things will always go wrong;
But to know, when they do,
The pain won’t last long;

This is to know love fades;
But even though yours died,
The joy it first brought
Never, ever lied.

This is to see past the age,
In many an engraved wrinkle,
And look into the youth
That still make your eyes twinkle;

This is to urge despite the deepest loss,
Don’t lose the will to hold on;
You haven’t seen the future yet
So hang in there and just go on;

This is to hope you rise, after each fall,
You smile, though broken and blue,
You love, though your heart feels lost,
You dream, though dreams never come true;

This is to say there is always a plan,
For the miniscule to the grand;
In time, it will manifest,
Even though now you don’t understand.

Sorry’s Song

Sorry, this isn’t a goodbye song,
It really isn’t meant to be,
It’s just to show you still belong
In all that is left to be.

This isn’t a mournful song,
It’s just a few words put in tune,
Not too serious, not so long,
And nothing to promise you the moon.

This is like a kiss on the cheek
A hug, a warm embrace
To help when memory gets too weak,
Or you need a smile on your face.

This is just a little parting,
Like the ones we’ve had before;
This is an adventure starting,
As you start to walk out the door –

The road will go on and on,
Down from where it began,
Though you go on and on,
You return when you can.

This is like a kiss on the cheek
A hug, a warm embrace
To help when memory gets too weak,
Or you need a smile on your face.

Some space,
Some grace,
Some heart’s trace,
Reminding you of your place.

This is like a kiss on the cheek
A hug, a warm embrace,
A warm embrace,
A warm embrace,
A warm embrace,
A warm embrace,
A warm embrace,
A warm embrace,
A warm embrace,
A warm embrace.

Scream from a Dream

I am at a loose end,

I must have gone off the bend,

I am shrieking inside,

My need messes my pride;

The fear of rejection so last century,

Still haunts the heart of me;

I’m tired of blaming the father,

With all the epithets I can gather;

Thirty seven is too old,

For desire not to be sold

Into the hands of the young,

Or into the pants of the hung.

I am adrift in a sea of doubt,

Without a cock in my mouth,

For love has turned into sacrifice

And there is too much fat in rice.

I sit quietly dealing with screams,

As others talk to me of their dreams,

I stop at a loose end,

And all I do is pretend

To ignore the loudest scream

From my own broken dream.