WHEN TOMORROW STARTS WITHOUT ME

When tomorrow starts without me, and I'm not there to see;
If the sun should rise and find your eyes all filled with tears for me;
I wish so much you wouldn't cry the way you did today,
While thinking of the many things we didn't get to say.
I know how much you love me, as much as I love you,
And each time you think of me, I know you'll miss me, too;
But when tomorrow starts without me, please try to understand,
That an angel came and called my name and took me by the hand,
And said my place was ready in heaven far above,
And that I'd have to leave behind all those I dearly love.
But as I turned to walk away, a tear fell from my eye,
For all my life, I'd always thought I didn't want to die.
I had so much to live for and so much yet to do,
It seemed almost impossible that I was leaving you.
I thought of all the yesterdays, the good ones and the bad,
I thought of all the love we shared and all the fun we had.
If I could relive yesterday, I thought, just for a while, I'd say good-bye and kiss you and maybe see your smile.
But then I fully realized that this could never be,
For emptiness and memories would take the place of me.
And when I thought of worldly things that I'd miss tomorrow,
I thought of you, and when I did, my heart was filled with sorrow.
But when I walked through heaven's gates, I felt so much at home.
When God looked down and smiled at me, from His great golden throne,
He said, "This is eternity and all I've promised you,
Today for life on Earth is past but here it starts anew.
I promise no tomorrow, but today will always last,
And since each day's the same day, theres no longing for the past.
But you have been so faithful, so trusting and so true,
Though there were times you did some things you knew you shouldn't do.
But you have been forgiven and now at last you're free.
So won't you take my hand and share my life with me?"
So when tomorrow starts without me, don't think we're far apart,
For every time you think of me, I'm right here in your heart.

-David M. Romano

THE BULLY

He rages from within, his eyes fixed in a stare,
Anxious for a fight, with whom he doesn't care.
His heart is filled with anger, his fists clenched in a ball,
Eager to ruin someone's day, as they hurry down the hall.
Who shall be his victim, there are many he can choose,
The girl with braces on her teeth, the kid in school who's new.
To him they're all the same, how he longs to make them cry,
And as the anger builds within, his classmates scurry by.
And then he sees around the corner, the shortest boy in class,
Should he be the victim, he wonders when he teased him last.
He doesn't quite recall, he doesn't really care,
His choice is finally made, because the boy is there.
So he calls out nasty names, as the boy dares to hurry by,
A boy who's done nothing wrong, just merely wondering why.
Why he's being teased, why won't anyone step in?
He's terrified of fighting back; there's no doubt he'd never win.
And there stands in the doorway, a teacher in plain view,
Who merely shakes his head, for what else can he do?
He's simply there to teach, the boys aren't in his class,
Teasing is a part of life; it's a phase he knows will pass.
So the bully is the victor, his place has well been earned,
The lesson no one taught him is one he'll never learn.
To a teacher, he's merely trouble, to the kids he's to be feared,
To his alcoholic father, he's a mistake and wasted years.
He's headed for a jail term; his life cannot be saved,
His problems are his own; his path to crime is paved.
So there he stands so angry, his back against the wall,
Begging for attention by making others small.

Standing on a corner, traffic whizzing by,
He yells out to the world, angry clouds roll through the sky.
His displeasure is apparent, his fists clenched so ever tight,
Who shall be his victim, on this fast approaching night?
There are many he can choose from; they all deserve his rage,
To him the world's just an act, he longs for center stage.
And then he spies that tired old man, with groceries in his hand,
At last he's found his victim, he proceeds without a plan.
He calls out angry threats, as the old man stumbles by,
One who's done nothing wrong, just merely wondering why?
Why he's being cursed at, why won't anyone step in,
He's terrified to fight back; there's no doubt he'd never win.
And there stands in the doorway, a grocer in plain view,
Who merely shakes his head, for what else can he do?
The man is not his father; the boy is not his son.
Words are nothing more than that, the boy's just having fun.
So the bully is the victor, his place has well been earned,
The lesson no one taught him, is one he'll never learn.
To the grocer he's merely trouble, to the old man he's to be feared,
To his alcoholic father, he's a mistake and wasted years.
He's headed for his jail term; his life cannot be saved,
His problems are his own; his path to crime is paved.
So there he stands so angry, his back against the wall,
Begging for attention, by making others small.

Drunk and with a shotgun gripped within his hands,
Hidden in the shadows, by a station where he stands.
He watches cars pull in and out, customers walking to and fro,
Staring past their faces, as they rush past him on the go.
Who shall be his victim, on that robbery barely planned,
There are many he can choose from, their lives so close at hand.
His heart beats out with anger; his brow is damp with sweat,
He has to win this game; the rules have long been set.
He sees her through the window, of her bright and shiny car,
The easy perfect target, his plan will take him far.
He hurries to the car door, he forces himself inside,
The shotgun near her head, as she begs him for her life.
But they are merely words; they do not faze his ears,
Her life is unimportant; he mocks her many tears.
And somewhere in the struggle, her screams pierce throughout the air,
She is just another victim, why, because she's there.
And there stands in the doorway, a mechanic in plain view,
Watching as the man drives away, what else can he do?
The girl is not his daughter, the boy is not his son,
He could not risk his own life, to stop a stranger with a gun.

The papers showed his picture, his face glorified across the screen,
To the world he was a loser, to himself he'd found his dream.
For at last somebody noticed, the boy with all that rage,
At last he found an audience, there from center stage.
So the bully was the victor, his place had well been earned,
And the lesson no one taught him, someone else was forced to learn.
For somewhere in the world, the shortest boy in class,
Stands there on the corner, watching everybody pass.
His anger overflowing, poison in his heart,
Getting even for his torment, seems the perfect place to start.
And elsewhere on the sidewalk, creeps a feeble man,
For his own protection, a weapon in his hand.
Watching every single person, who quickly passes by,
His heart no longer frightened, he's no longer asking why.
For inside he knows the answer, as does the smallest boy in class,
Words ignite an anger, whose meaning may not pass.
But perhaps the biggest lesson, that stands out from the rest,
Has been forced up a mother, who wonders what lies next.
As she stands there at the grave site, where her only daughter lay,
Wondering about the horrible evens, that led her to that day.
What caused a child so young, only sixteen years of age,
To be filled with so much anger, to internalize such rage.
That he would kill her daughter, so young and full of life,
Didn't anyone ever take the time, to teach him wrong from right?
To his father he was nothing; his life at home was fear,
And from his drunken father, came a message very clear.
Words that wreaked their damage, that no one cared to see,
The day a good-for-nothing boy, became what they said he'd be.

-Cheryl Costello Forshey