I write the words you read Hoping to please you with my thoughts, my soul, My narcissistic compulsion to reveal myself: A man near fifty, Long lost in anger, confusion and doubt, Who spoke of bold action, but did not act, Who wanted love, but held love back, Who was afraid, Who is afraid. I am learning. I am learning to trust myself, To accept myself, both the good and the bad, Learning to trust those I love to love me, To accept me as I am. I am old, tired and sick, Yet younger, more alive than I ever was, Because one love smiled, Another love laughed, A third understood, And my wife said, “lovely,” To words that I wrote, To words from my heart, To words from my soul, Not pretty words, not perfect words, My awkward, ill-chosen words, But my words, my heart, my soul, Given in trust, given in love, And returned in kind.