Perhaps, if I were a locksmith
I could find the key,
That would allow me to open up
And look at the real me,
Who ever that is.

This heart
that beats
within my chest,
does so
with little rest.
An irregular beat,
that skips along
but with rhythm
like a song.
I am
the oldest son,
of this
family mine,
that loves life
of all others,
be they sisters
or our brothers.
We all are
of God's choice,
so please pray
for all your peers,
keeping control
of all your fears.
Hang strong,
I say to you.
You of all
know what to do.

You're a man now, don't you cry.
Words that still echo in my head.
To this day, coming from years past,
When being stoic, was not a choice,
But a state of deportment, for you.
It served me well, through the years,
To keep that "stiff upper lip."
So I was surprised, when one day
I felt a tear roll down my cheek.
A sad movie or tragic scene,
Demean me not in Public, you see,
For being stoic is what I am
Supposed to be, makes little sense.
I understand, but I must
Act like a man, not shed a tear.

My mind is in a shallow grave.
No depth of soul,
No heart, the brave.
I search for words. They do not come.
Perhaps I should drink some rum.
Whimsical verse, M. Oliver says to me,
Will not happen. Lost in my reverie.