When I was little, my father’s stories were the greatest thing ever. The BEST. They were exciting and unbelievable. Seriously. Unbelievable. Figures, I’d fall in love with a man that had the same things going for him: A shock-factor based humor that hurt people miles away. A rage that would make a thousand suns cower. An overwhelming passion that apparently had to be shared with everybody possible. They say you marry your father.
I’ve always loved your stories, listening to you share life experiences;
They were exhilarating and beautiful. I wanted to experience them, too.
But life is gray, and I wasn’t good enough;
We’re constantly wondering, is this actually over?
You still tell your stories, colorful as ever;
But the “Umph is lacking, because I’ve started looking closer.
Leaving your lips are hostile kisses, lies of reassurance;
In one ear and out the other, this has become an occurrence.
Never know what to believe, and apparently I’m not the only one.
In one ear and out the other, never knowing if the end is actually near.
It seems we have started a “New Chapter” except you’ve turned the page, and I’ve burned the entire book.
Continuing to tell a story that is no longer making you feel alive.. Why lie?