And We All Fall Down

And we all fall down
    Our pockets full of troubles
Dreams burnt to ashes
When all we really want is to be free again like children

Time makes our days turn into months
And our months into years
    Taking us away from hours spent
    Playing in the sunshine
        Dancing in the grass until

We all fall down
Scrape our knees
    Bruise our elbows
Only now we have to
     Dust off our own pants
Fix our own bike chain
    And find a way to dry our tears

The nursery rhymes have faded
      Only echos now
Happy memories that wilt our hearts
       Like dying posies

I write

I write

    because no one seems capable of returning a shopping cart to the cart corral

    or slowing down for a yellow light

    or using a blinker to help other drivers know what they are doing

I write

    because there is too much hate in the world

    It is infecting our everyday life

    A 19-year-old rapes and kills a 66-year-old woman because he “had nothing better to do”

    Children can not go to a movie, school, shopping, or a basketball game

         without some kind of violence: gun, knife, or words

I write

   because school board members have personal agendas

   Teachers are burned out from testing

        tired from screaming parents (that won’t return a shopping cart)

   Students don’t even care what they will be when they grow up

   They have the newest app, Facebook friends, and 10k likes

    How can you want anything more than that?

I write

    because there is enough money

    It just isn’t used for the the things we say are important

    We preach one message but spend on something else

    Even the civility we get from the drive thru is scripted

I write

    because sunsets and sunrises never stop being beautiful

    A day is always an opportunity to show love

    Even if it is as simple as returning a few carts to the corral

I write

     for my family and friends

     To let them know I love them

     That I will stand for them

       no matter the rising waves of pain in this world

I write

  because my heart beats blood through my veins

  pulsing to my fingers

     that produce these words

     this poem

     for you to read

A Present

They say this life is a present…

But I can't find it.

I'm scrounging under the tree like a four-year-old.

Trying to find which box is mine.

Where is my name?

None of the tags reveal the present to be mine.

I see all the colored boxes.

I even shake a few.

So many beautiful bows

 and colorful paper.

I would be happy even with a small box.

For some reason, Santa has forgot about me this year.

My stocking is empty.

There's not even coal.

The fireplace sits cold and dark.

the cookies are gone from the plate.

I know that Santa has forgotten me this year.