My father and I would constantly communicate over the phone
It was the only way to make Detroit and Edmonton feel inseparable
As years went on I felt my sincerity plummet, I subconsciously adopted a fickle heart
Memories of our conversations became faint but this, this was different
I remember my voice reaching the peak of hate
Destruction became my first language
His became silence
The silence of his pain was the cause of my depression
I had an everlasting frown hiding behind the make up of a smile
Denial and regret flooded within me–regret devoured my serenity
It sat me in a pool of my faults and watched me as I drowned
Regret is an ocean of over thinking that eroded my heart into a weak, helpless rock
How ironic, I’m killing the only thing that keeps me alive
My heart was a deep trench in which darkness resided in
It swallowed my sorrows and left them whole in my stomach
It adopted Lucifer’s whispers and held onto them tightly
For a heart that is desperate to find happiness and for ears that are in need of sound to accompany them, his whispers were like a beautiful harmony that puts a heart to rest
Ears that are strangers to sound will always fall for his voice
He leads you to a path where even fireflies have lost their light
But I cut ties with him–
I dug a hole into myself and found what God had implanted in me
Death cuts deep but light is found in even the deepest of caves
August 15th, 2013, my father died in an explosion
The news of his death felt like an atom bomb dropping into the depths of my soul, causing a new beginning
His death radiated into the hearts of many and the flash shock left shadows of his remembrance behind
Fortunately, it triggered the emotion in me–he is the bleeding ink of my heart, he is the fuel to my fiery passion
I write because of him
I write the words that were buried under the rubble; the words that he locked up but only contemplation could reveal them
I write the words that his silence was so accustomed to hearing
I write to keep his words from disappearing
I write for his voice to be heard because it was hijacked by a ruthless killer
I write because this world needs to hear the voice of the oppressed; the voice that pleads for justice to be addressed
It’s ironic, he tried to find peace in a world that only knew about war–it was as if life tattooed struggle onto his soul
The burden of failure weighed on him heavier than the fear of death
He would rather die than be reminded of his pain, although, he had no choice, it seemed to be chronic
He left this world silently but his blood reeked of indignant pleads
And maybe, just maybe, If I continue to write, I could revive his voice into the heavens so the angels could recognize the voice that was left vacant on earth
