Tuesday, December 6, 2011

Eat And Drive.

One day I fear you'll see me as a woman.
No more.
No less.
I fear I might be nothing to you in the long run.
I also remember that it's only difficult for you because you don't know how you feel towards me.
Maybe that's allot of bullshit.
Mayhaps the reason is I provide and do allot for you.
Maybe this should end just how it is for you haven't seen me how I want you to.
Nigger, I'm strong.
You'll never know who I am, I fear.
Because it's hard for me to act at all.
For some strange reason I'll never understand why you wanted me on your side.
When you couldn't take care of me how I could for you.
How I feel I always have.
I made you toast.
And more than likely sandwiches.
I stayed out of your hair.
I was a good kid.
And you were the awful father I never knew personally.
I know your personality.
And I know you've hugged me promising it would never happen again.
And I know that no matter how many times you say it won't.
There's a huge yellow sticky note taped to inside of my forehead forbidding me to ever trust you.
I don't know you because I never knew how you could do it.
You have told me you did.
But never the reason.
Because there is a reason.
The only one I've ever known is stress.
The only good father I've ever known is a woman.
Sure you provide for me and that may be enough for you.
I can't talk to you because I don't know how.
Or else I might tell you that I just want to spend time with you.
But I can't.
Because this is that hard for me.
I love you.
It's just stupid to me.
But it does matter.
It always has.
And I hope one day I'll have the courage to tell you how you made me feel during my teenage years.
The years of constant towel soaking with sad weenies because of the mean boys.
Or the neglect I give people for utterly no reason and feel no guilt.
Or the hatred.
I should work now.
And improve myself.
Make myself stronger today, and tommorie.
Expand my brainage.
And have the note stapled to the inside of my forehead that I will one day tell you who I am, and how you made me feel.
I love you, Papa.
 

How Much Wood. None. Thank God.

As you may see.
Colton is behind me.
And he lookin' good too.
I continue to draw anchors.
And discuss my life.
And think about marrying you because it makes me happy.
To have 100% Mexican babies.
Running around.
Not eating in the car.
Having the house smell like Sweet Pea and Clinique.
Having those really warm jacket.
We'd have a fire place.
And slippers and silk bathrobes.
I have a job of something I never thought I would.
Sing "Star Sweeper," like the mommy from Lady and the Tramp.
Which I happen to know all the lyrics.
I take notes. 
On how you do things.
I'm almost certain this won't happen the way I want it to.
And somehow I'll learn to accept.
Find someone better.
Who is also Mexican.
Imagine that.
Too bad Colton's not Mexican.
Baby.
You're a baby.
And so am I for complaining.
"Who says my wife can't be hot?"
I will.
Swear to it, young boy.
You will be my wife.
Or you won't.
Swear to that.
Anchors ahoy.
You make me want to be a better me.
And for all you and I both know.
I will be.
And the dish ran away with the spoon.