Dad

My dad is a great story teller.

One time, he told to me about his ex girlfriends, and how one of them wrote the worst love letters, and that he couldn't stand being with her anymore. I told him that mom isn't a good writer either, and he said, that was okay, because she never attempted to write him letters to begin with.

When I was in middle school, I wrote a poem about my dad. My dad cried over it, which wasn't a big deal, because he is a man who is not afraid of crying, but still, I felt like that was a sign of approval.

I want to write good stories and poems with easy and honest words.

Virginia Woolf and I have something in common. We are addicted to tragedy.

Because I like reading sad stories in the bath tub,

knowing that someone could easily pull three or four yards of rosy red silk out of their wrist.

But she was an observer who writes, I am an observer who reads.

I don't have pocketful of heavy stones pulling me down with ever lasting love,

or a nice scenery -like a bridge where little boys stop by to look at the fish- that I would like to look from below for hours and days and years,

so I keep on reading, my eyes and hands still dry.

When the water gets too hot for me, I do not hesitate,

I drain all the water out,

I watch my own body -once drowned- resurface, clean and safe.

I return to bed and set my alarm because

I must wake up,

from dream of endless kisses or dream of people I admire exposing my fraudulence.

Because she was a dreamer whose eyes forever shut

and I am a dreamer who blinks.