My Father

I'm supposed to be writing a short story of my father
   the man I never knew --the elusive detail of my life that I can equate all failures and hiccups.
   All the unexplained garbage that falls from me in the most depressive of ways and churns out a hopeless romantic rant. 
I have very little facts of him --just stories; and I kept telling myself for years that I was going to get to the bottom of it while my family was still somewhat in tack.  I was going to probe everyone with questions and really form a solid picture of this man I never met.
  But it all seemed to fail --miserably; like everything else.  My pessimism got the better of me and still I stare at half written notes and tangents unfinished but saved in my Word.
  I just realized that I was building another wall --another reason to not get what I wanted done.  Maybe that's a trait of my father's. Maybe he was like this; just floating about life "sans wit and without fortitude".  Maybe he was a poet in his own rite.  Maybe all these stories I keep collecting were his trademark and not his soul.
  Perhaps he pushed the ones he loved most furthest away and never got around to telling them he loved them.  Maybe the only woman he loved was my mother.
  Either way...I'll never know.  Not unless I change too; unlike Him...before it was too late.