Dreams of death haunt me,
I see my children weeping.
Looking from the grave,
I long to kiss away tears,
Though forever held to dirt.
Falling from the mountains of emotion,
Falling from the epic climb up cliffs and peaks.
I can smell piss,
It permeates the house and carpet,
It lives in the furniture, I clean and the next week returns.
Living day to day with minimal adult interaction,
Living in a house but unable to make it a home.
Longing for the inebriation and sweet forgetfulness of spirits,
Longing for times when the weight is still there, but considerably less.
Sleep comes in short bursts and then poor in quality,
Sleep brings good dreams, the only reprieve.
Tears in the early morning, before the sun rises,
Tears of self pity, emptiness, and loss.
Puke is always at the point of expulsion,
Puke is always fought back down, no time for that.
Saddened by the mental incapacity of the father,
Saddened by the hurt I’ve caused the ones I love.
Only by the will and strength of diapers both young and old,
Only for the love given and the smiles of my children.
She’s born to whispers
In the early morning night.
She is beauty born.
Grasped in sandy hands,
What joy to a child’s heart,
Are gifts from the sea.
I dream of warm days
With the laughter of children
Splashing in water,
And a cool cocktail in hand
To slow the passage of time.
His hands hold wonder,
Pure is the feeling of joy.
The child’s power.