14 Underneath the Door
My father was a doctor
Who would come home late at night
With a soul so brusied and bleeding
from his unending faithful fight
to keep ahold of kindness
in a world that isn't kind
to hold out the hope of healing
to his hurting humankind
Then he'd flee back to his study
to his bookish quiet place
with notes and books and journals
wall to wall in his special place
then he locked his door from things
that cannot be locked out
and his youngest son would starve
for what he would always do without
But it was meant to make me who I am
and for all these many years
to the little boy down on his knees
full of hope, and full of fear
Calling underneath the door,
this is me, it's who I am
for we love the best by listening
when we try to understand
Desperate stubby fingers,
pushing pictures neath the door
and longing to be listened to
by the man that i adored
inside someone who needed me
just as much as i did him
still unable to unlock the door
that stayed closed inside of him
And it's strange the way we tend to flee
from what we need the most
that a father would lock out his son
when his heart would hold him close
but our wounds are part of who we are
and there is nothing left at chance
and pains the pen that writes the songs
and they call us forth to dance
This browser does not support the video element.