Confessions of a Father

I think the best poems
are the ones that
The artist will never share.
I know I've got a couple
That would make my mom wonder
How long her baby boy will be here.
I know there are some versus
That would make my baby's mama
Curse me
For even asking for her number
At the bar that year.
A poets best work
Comes from a place of pain.
I couldn't tell you how many broken
Hearts
And relationships falling apart
Wrote this acid rain.
Wrote my greatest lines.
You were all my stepping stones
To which I find
My most creative pieces.
And now I'm numb.
I'm numb to my own indesence.
I've broken so many things that
Even my inner light
Refuses to shine for me
When I need it.
The price to being a poet.
I have no innocence left.
Just the memories
Of the happy things
That are no longer left.
Everyone has left.
And I ignorantly question why.
Sometimes I stare into my daughters
Eyes and wonder
If she will ever realize
That her father has no soul.
I gave what's left of it to her.
How do I protect her.
How do I protect her,
From men like me.
The poets
and the addicts,
Dressed like sheep.
With nice clothes
And good cologne,
and a smile to mask the pain.
I hope she learns to read the versus
That will never be on a page.
But but written in their eyes,
and performed in their actions.
Because at first it might be passion,
But soon it will be fire,
And my deepest fear
Is to hold my daughter
As her tears,
Cascade down because she's tired.
Tired of being hurt.
for another man's greatest work,
How can I protect her,
From a man whose greatest worth,
Is as much as her fathers.
I wish I could take it back,
All I can hope is that my daughter,
Never ends up,
with a man like me.