Thursday, February 25, 2016



What kind of Mask - do you put on?
What kind of Mask - have I?
And is it a Mask an observer
Could easily push aside?

It is -- you say? How charming.
Do you -- Honestly -- believe that's so?
I find your argument - lacking --
Because of the things I know.

My Mask is - one of Smiles -
It doesn't often crumble away.
I often push aside my Hurt,
This Mask I wear everyday.

The casual observer won't notice,
Or even - Care - to look.
And even the ones' I Love the most --
My pain most overlook.

So don't tell me your mask is obvious,
Stop -- Lying -- to yourself --
Because it hurts and hurts and nothing works --
And it further wounds your soul -

A Good Story

A Good Story

Truly, the thing I love the most
Is a story.
A story well told -
Something few really appreciate --
Life stories
Are the things I love the most.
A life story is a sad thing to lose --
Pass it down,
Send it on,
So it won't be lost.
So tell me a good story -
One with hurt,
Fear --
So I have a good story
And a piece -- of you --
After you leave.

The Storyteller - Lost History

The Storyteller - Lost History

The Story of a person's life
Is honestly quite -- fleeting.
How easy it is to misplace or lose
To not find again - completely.

Though other's know -- small pieces
And parts of another's - life,
That is all --- just a chunk
Of someone else's strife.

Though we can shift through the dirt -
Dig through -- the memories
Trying to fit pieces together
In a single - crafted - story,

Like archaeologists -- we guess
Upon the meaning of the pottery.
A crucial piece is missing --
Our guesses are mere snobbery.

The other's thoughts are replaced,
We can only - guess - at what
Someone else may be thinking
And the - truth - of the matter is
That that really isn't adequate.

The Storyteller of that life is
The only - one - who can make it clear,
With no pieces missing, or shattered,
So we can hold that loved one dear.

The person who truly -- lived it --
It must be them - the Storyteller.
Because honestly who else can supply
A clear and detailed picture.

And without that precious knowledge
Of who you are and were - those left
Must uproot the flowers you planted
To find the remains you kept.

In Loving Memory of my Grandmother who recently passed away.