robot talk. bleepity bloop.
2005-06-19 16:39:48 (UTC)

a slice of heaven

my dad wanted to be a journalist
he wanted to be a writer
and he had excellent handwriting
he wrote about the things he saw in a tiny notebook with red and blue lines
on its grey pages
he always wrote in pencil
half of the letters were in cursive
the other half were not
but they always mixed together to make a perfect vignette
of the people he saw
the places he visited
and how he felt when he was there

My father wanted to be a writer
and nobody ever knew
because he was so good at keeping secrets
and so good at hiding behind a suit and tie
and running a business that his father gave him with a smile
And when computers came, he had to look at the keyboard when he typed
because his fingers were too big for the keys

My father wanted to be creative
but I hadn't realized it until now
an artist, my father
an artist that nobody ever met
nobody except for me, of course
he's a stranger that I'd like to be
a stranger I met on blue and red lined grey paper
In a notebook that's underneath my bed covered in dust
and still a secret
half cursive
half not