Feels like yesterday. #100daysofblogging #Day19

The following is 2 verses I wrote recently, dedicated to my brother Tim Skinner and his son Connor Hart, who were taken from us in a tragic accident 1 year ago tomorrow.

few years ago I wrote a song for my bro
had a different message, a very different flow
there was no way then, that I could have known,
I’d never see him again and I was feeling hurt so

I wrote a little song demanding he call me
half my life had passed and I was being haunted,
waking up tearing my heart out in the morning
started as a teen, now I couldn’t ignore it.

dream he was back, wake up he’s gone again
subconscious thought trying to find a way to mend
scars from a past I was barely a part of,
wanted a change but had nowhere to start from

found a way to get a message to you,
but all you had to say is there’s nothing I can do
spoke with your girl and did a few sums
was then I found out about your four year old son

four year old son I found out about on Facebook
cutest little kid with a cheeky little look,
had the skinner chin, younger face of Tim
one single glance revealed the nature of kin

guess I’d hoped Tim you’d open up to me
invite me for a beer, maybe we could speak
hadn’t heard your voice since I was a teen,
and I wanted you to meet the adult version of me

wanted to meet your lady, you to meet my wife,
wanted to play a part in your sons life
but suddenly then, the worst turn of luck
fishing with your son when tragedy struck;

unseen wave came up under the rocks,
swept you off of your feet, both of your lives lost
hardest year through which I have ever been,
the year monther nature took you both permanently.

Martyr #121 (Luke’s Poetry)

A man sits behind a bar,
strumming his fingers;
in order.

Thinking of the past,
strumming his fingers;
he orders.

One beer goes down,
he prays for his sins;
and orders.

Two beers now empty,
he stands up straight;
and thinks.

His money on the table,
his pains concealed;
he stumbles.

Into the darkness,
un-armed and alone;
he walks.

Judgement then comes,
a gun to his head
he screams.

Tied up and taken,
beaten not broken;
he dies.

His name was Omar.
The papers call him
number 121.

A fly on the wall (explosions in street)

There’s a boom!
There’s a smash.
The man falls.

There is glass.
There is screaming.
The man bleeds.

There was TV.
There was couch.
The man cries.

There was son.
There was daughter.
Both died.

TV playing,
in the front room.
The front window,
the man’s wife.

Their children.
A bomb.
The glass window.
The man’s life.

The Weary Man (Luke’s Poetry)

The weary man sits outside his house,
a newspaper spread across his lap.
In the background a radio sounds,
as he awaits the latest news.

He’s barely 30- yet he’s all alone.
Everyone left him years ago.
Yet noise comes from the telephone,
so he jumps up and runs to answer.

It’s Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder,
no phone call- he’s still alone.

He sits down again,
and as he reads the news cries.
He wonders will they ever learn,
before the last man dies?

War still rages as his insides burn
and he jumps up confused and angry:
as the phone rings again.

Post Traumatic Stress Disorder,
the struggle to be sane.
A voice comes from the driveway,
his daughters excited tone!

He survives the fight for sanity,
because he has family, so he’s not alone.