Your Eyes on Little Me

I’m excited
for when you become a dad.

This isn’t the normal break-up poem,
about how I would’ve been the perfect mom,
how our children
would be a reason for staying together all this time,
or a way to make-up for “never getting over”

because I have.

But “Next to You” is playing
and I’m feeling nostalgic.

So let me say that I’m excited
you’d be the father
that lets his child believe
they can fly.
You’ll be the daddy
his little girl comes running to,
the one she’ll want the love of her life to be modeled after.

Promise me
you’ll never lose that light in your eyes
and the laugh
that shakes a whole room.
Promise me
you’ll tell them
all the good and bad things
and you’ll recall with clarity
the moments that made you,
for them,
to them.

It’ll take time,
but when I see a dad charging toward his kid
like a plane,
I’ll see you.
And when I see a child
it’ll sound like you.

We grew apart,
but promise me,
you’ll never grow up.


Future Realities

like a stain on your lips
that doesn’t come from kisses.
Like the first ray of sunshine
that signals spring.
Like believing this life is not the end,
like hoping for bliss.
Like kindness.

like a sugar rush.
Like constant laughter
running like light
through an open floor plan.
Like children falling to the floor,
rolling on their backs and giggling.
Like sanded furniture.
Like wild flowers,
fresh flowers
springing from every crevice.

like silence,
like an honest promise,
one that’s kept.
Like moments where it is you
and God
and the birds singing on the window
and maybe you’re in that townhouse
or that cottage
but you’re smiling easier
and in awe of the littlest of things
like the way ice cube press together,
share space with tea
with citrus
with everything that represents simplicity.

like possibility.
Like this life you’re living,
like what the future could hold.

like waking up
and realizing
this world
is your dream.

Generation Gap

People change in the blink of an eye,

and you gotta accept that.

Fact of my life:

suck it up,

and deal.

I’m speaking to myself here.

But I look at the kids around me,

and honestly,

I want to be anywhere

but here with them.

I don’t want to succumb

to the chemicals that makes up their blend.

I don’t want to fall into this trap

they call trend,

and I don’t want to be known as one of their gen—


Wasted youth of the nation.

They ask us to inspire,

to change the world

with a flip of a tassel,

and a stark piece of paper.

They forget kids drain out whatever they don’t want to hear;

regardless if they need to.

Those are the kids other kids are taught to be like:

those are the kids other kids think are cool.

And I’m never going to feel like an adult with them around;

or maybe all I’ll feel like is an adult with them around.

A mom;

a constant nurturing figure

holding their hair back as they expel all previous content

into some unknown person’s toilet,

or getting high off of whatever is being passed on in the line,

they don’t really care enough to decline,

all they think about are themselves and what will be


Selfish aggravation.

Sexual temptation.

Ah, here we are.

Engulf yourselves in degradation.

But don’t expect indignation,

rather you hate the irritation that burns behind the eyes of those 

who are looking at you like you’re headed straight for damnation.

But yet,

you’re still saying, “To hell with it.”



are not my generation.

And if you are,

I was born some way,

some time,

some place


Far, far away

from this altercation.