My daughter.
My daughter never speaks. Most weeks I spend two or three hours total driving her around in my car, and she never speaks, she just looks out the window. I often wonder what she’s thinking about, and today when I got the school newsletter I saw this poem she wrote:
Memories
Selene Means
Team 73I am a piece of paper;
clean and blank,
now written all over
by others.Words written in sharpie;
written in ink.
Staying there.
Forever.Everything is written.
Everything.
Praises.
Compliments.
.Kindness.
Lies.
Hatefulness.
Misery.
Anger.Sometimes it seems,
just seems,
kindness is outnumbered
by hurt.But still,
I am a piece of a paper.
A home to these words.
Written in sharpie.
Staying with me.
Forever.
In memories.
It makes my heart ache, because I can’t give her any of my experiences, just watch her form her own. And hope.
I'm trying to be a Renaissance man in an age of specialization. I'm a father, a writer, a programmer, a lover, and a fighter. I'm trying real hard to be the shepard, but sometimes I'm afraid that I am the tyranny of evil men.
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