Me and the little man

I tried to call my son today
he wont pick up it’s a game we play
When we meet I kiss him he turns his head away
But that’s as long as his mother is looking his way

It’s a game we play and we understand
Me and the separated 5 year old man
Mothers get custody and we don’t want them to hurt
But boys will be boys and everything is a sport

So we play games on the computer when given half the chance
We enjoy war games and shooters who cares for romance
Life is bitter and not everything worked our way
But for a hour a month , two boys will play

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One day

one day when I have healed adequately
over the guilt of estrangement from son
and the depression of divorcing his mother
I would undertake to sail the ships
of friendship of relationship

I want to have a family again
I was a good dad until I quit
And I liked the job well
How many years do I wait to heal?
I don’t know I can’t say I am not sure

Am I burnt? Yes Am I scared? Yeah
Should I go out more? Maybe
Should I initiate and sustain more? Hmm
One day I shall be happy again. When will that be?
I don’t know I can’t say I am not sure

mon garçon

sometimes I miss my son
even before the day has begun
when I wake up the pillow is wet
I cant remember when I got upset

at the times I remind myself when sad
for your own ego impatience is bad
small boys are fragile need good care
I am a father who was never there

when he grows up a fine young man
we could be friends if we can
till then we continue these strange ways
daddy loves you so much away he stays


Mental Illness is such a dirty word

the serotonin kicks
the prozac it is working
slowly as it is an extended release

twice a day pop the pill
to stay alive
just survive

the banality
the mediocrity
the morbidity

of existence
of angst
of guilt

every day
count till ten
when subway train comes in

every night
take deep breaths
when panic attacks

addicted to pain
to the overheated brain
resisting the urge to be insane

every poem
every straw
to float on

every word
every smile
concealing your secret

a disease called mental illness
a reality called I miss my son
a will to survive

and on

alone and dirty
mental illness is such a dirty word
emotionally retarded is funnier to say

we call it
a lifestyle disorder
and smile


she leans looking close to the computer
her hair almost falling on her eyes
I have work to do , she says , this project to send
While watching her the poet sits down with sighs

He envies the computer and especially the mouse
How it would feel to caressed by those icy fingers
It would be nice It would be a bit weird
To surrender your independence

to the firm grip of someone who just wants to use you
without caring about how you feel at every click
beauty is the temptation for every lonely young man
especially ones who can do nothing but watch and write

Has my writing rendered my initiative impotent
Has my divorce castrated my heart ‘s desires
Has my courage failed me because of the age and medicine
Or am I just thinking too much once again