When my father died, he was 56. I was 33, and in all the time we had together, I still feel like I didn't really know him when he left. He didn't talk much. He didn't share much. And often times, I wasn't in the mood for listening. With my first son on the way, I wanted to gather some of my thoughts, feelings, and beliefs. That encompassed putting together a collection of poems, songs, and writings I had gathered over the last several years. My hope is that, at some point in the future, it gives him some sense of who his father was at the time he arrived and in the years leading up to it. How he saw the world, how he felt about his mother, what he found funny, or hurtful, or meaningful. It is not a collection about my son, but rather a collection about his father. And in sharing with him, it felt only appropriate to share it with the world. There is always something inside yearning to get out. While my guitar has been carefully placed in it's case, and the microphone of my 20s, in a crate in the basement, the pen and paper are always right there on the desk. https://www.amazon.com/author/crobertbitto #Poems #poetry #poem #song #book
