Email Poem

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Subject
Personal Note:
Poem Title:
Poem
If you were to find an old 
calendar, strap it to a hospital 
bed,
tie it down by its weak ends, 
and then sea section the belly 
of it's pages, you'd find the 
winding roads of my intestinal 
past.
I used to be a ballot box filled 
of everyone else's opinion 
except for my own. My swagger 
was like watching a Walkman 
trying to swallow a DVD. 
When I was a little younger,
I walked as if I were concerned 
about how the ground would 
feel about my footsteps. And if 
I could just find a way to write 
a letter to myself, when I was a 
sweater with itchy sleeves that 
I would someday grow out of,
I would say, 
"There will be days you will feel 
like a peacock with no feathers.
You will feel flightless, and 
undeserving of attention." 
But listen, listen to me. LISTEN. 
You have to stop getting out of 
bed like you are an oil spill. 
You're not a flat tire at 2 am, 
so stop acting like an accident.
Spenser, you are an apple on a 
pine tree in a room full of 
lemons, and you come from a 
line of authentic Swiss army 
pocket knives; Men who are  
rare, sharp and dangerous 
when not handled carefully. 
Somedays I wish my arms were 
a few years longer so that I 
could reach back, grab you by 
the shoulders, punch you in the 
chest, and say, 
"Listen. You are the main 
character in a movie that I 
watch every time I see the 
inside of my eyelids."
I told myself a million times 
that I wouldn't spoil the ending, 
but I will tell you this:  Your 
story starts off really slow, but 
it does get better. 
You don't have to believe me. 
Someday you'll see for 
yourself. 
I will see her again soon. 
At the apex of her driveway 
that I can now see in my 
dreams,
I will ignore the washing 
machine in my stomach. 
I'll tell her that she looks 
beautiful. 
I will extend my arms like a 
drawbridge to a castle no one 
has visited in years. 
Pressure washing my fears 
from my hardened heart, I will 
show her how far I've come 
from the hospital bed.
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