Underneath The Door

My father was a doctor

Who would come home late at night

With a soul so bruised 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

To wall in his special space

And then he'd lock the door

From things that cannot be locked out

And his youngest son was starved for what

He'd always do without

Ch. But it was meant to make me who I am

And for all these many years

Still 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."

Cause we love the best by listening

When we try to understand

Desperate stubby fingers

Pushing pictures 'neath the door

Longing to be listened to

By the man that I adored

Inside someone who needed me

As much as I did him

Unable to unlock the door

That stayed closed inside of him

It's strange the way we tend to flee

From what we need the most

That a father would lock out a son

When his heart would hold him close

But our wounds are part of who we are

And there is nothing left to chance

And pain's the pen that writes the songs

And call us forth to dance