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