Reid@YWP

When my father cries, he sticks his lip out like a kid, his jaw shaking, his eyes red.

He cries when a truth is told:

Someone’s leaving, the end is near, or a fault is exposed,

Guilty

Ugly.

The warm bark of the weeping willow

The blazoned hanging leaves blowing slightly in the wind

The tree with the warm glow of the sun shining on its bark

I want to hold 

Both a pen and a sword, 

To find struggle within my words, 

To make pain drip from the ink, 

Trickling onto my palms, 

i, like many poets, have wondered a million times what it would be like to be a bird: soaring high above the trees, unburdened by life's banal worries. something primal and free.