Bleeding ink #5,221

Maybe it’s a burned mirror

Maybe it’s a hurricane

Shadowed pain

I carried for too too many years

——

I can hear the crack of the baseball glove

I’m watching you do your best

Even though you just had open heart surgery ….

I never really realised just how old you really were—-just how young I really was …

——

And I know it’s cool

To have all these issues

And I know

It’s cool to say “they never tell you…”

But truth is-that’s all they ever tell you…

——

I tend to remember growing, bleeding, living…

Trying to find a way to spend what time I could, with you,

It’s strange realising your parents are just people like us

And it’s strange when they are gone

Suddenly any issues

All the rooms

All the drawers

That they occupied in your mind

All the questions

They are suddenly emptied

Fresh clean paper

You spent your whole life writing notes on – now it’s all empty

I guess I learned

Early

I did what I could while I could

And I’ve always been glad about that…

Sitting under a tree

Only talking about , God , sports and politics…just so I wouldn’t trip when you were gone …

But I remember working when I was little

And I remember the smell of all the old trucks…loaded with produce from the markets and listening to every braves game while we sold produce on the side of the road…

And I just wanted to say

We all turned out ok.

Because when you’re gone

It’s not like leaving home

You’re gone

Gone

Gon

So take what you need

What you can live with

Because everything’s eventually gone

And I won’t be here forever

I will eventually dissolve

And

It’s only words on paper

But all of this hate and bitterness

It’s not cool to stay a mess

I remember all the hate I held

Turned to ash staining my hands

The night you left

Realising

All that was left was the blood stain on the carpet …

And maybe it’s just –

Whether it’s love, whether it’s hate , whether it’s pride or Pain

It’s all too much for a heart to carry

So do what you need –

Whatever you can live with-

Eventually all that will be left of us

Is memory

It’s a fickle thing

And it always seems to change