I'm broken down by their weakness,
and distasteful indecency.
Over and over, I'll continue to play the victim.
In place of warm life,
stone and ice grow.
Anger beckoning hate,
begging to harbor it soundly.
And I'm susceptible, having been made a weak shell.
My eyes encountering a new emptiness of low temperature.
My new self refusing hell, but where is the desire for heaven?
Its a disgusting feeling, new to me.
Stubborn against my tears, in attempts to force it out of me.
Tears over my former self.
I'm poison, only now.

Does anyone remember?

Does anyone remember?

I was given an angel once,
who surely could not remember
or who had possibly caught glimpse of my former self,
which could not be enough.
And yet, what was enough, was that this angel
made me remember.
There were promises,
of warm, and safe embraces,
which could melt the new ice.
And these embraces were the only true act,
that could force the anger away.
Tears were given a new life,
and their warmth was love.
I'm loving in a new way;
with gentle hands and generous arms,
genuine smiles and kind words.
A God-sent angel to heal my heart.
To renew me and teach me loving.

*I remember.

If I think back far enough,
I can recall
bamboo forests.
And when there was money enough
for the big fireworks on New Year's,
to illuminate those forests.
And if I think hard enough,
I can remember that swing in the front yard.
And swinging - from my father's arms.
And I believe I can recall
coming home to my mother.
Back when she would spend her days
painting and gardening and cooking and baking.
I can still taste the orange Spanish rice.
Sunlight filtered on the hardwood floors and wall paper,
and the cats seemed to appreciate it.
And I remember the tadpole pond,
and Grandma next door.
And I know Halloween was a must.
Have I strayed so far,
that these are now only memories to miss?
Can I revert to my father's arms,
and my mother's song?
What can I do?
I'm stuck in the pattern of growing up.

It must have been late autumn,
though I was too young, so I can't be sure.
And while most would remember a grown man cry,
I only recall the lack of tears.
It must have been late autumn,
or else why the demand for firewood,
and the repeated chop of the axe?
Until it missed.
Down to the bone, possibly a scream,
but no tears...
"Why aren't you crying, Daddy? Doesn't it hurt?"
I remember considering him the strongest man this world has to offer.
And it could be true in a physical sense.
But its not really about the body, is it?

Now I don't remember the season, but I remember the pain.
Of course, not his pain; but ours.
They left the night before for the operating room.
And left us to be alone that morning.
It's not often you sense the love between endlessly quarreling brother and sister.
But it's there. And it surfaced.
And its not often you see a grown man cry.
But the tears are there. And they surfaced.
The fear of losing a brother; a son.
Not someone else, not another soul to leave him:
I could hear his pleas beyond his rambling words.
So it's not really about the body, is it..?

It happened almost 12 years prior,
but photos seem to bring back everything, don't they?
And as I flipped through the pages of that tattered album,
I pointed out one to him.
But his eyes focused on a different picture entirely.
Only a few memories of that man reside in the corners of my mind.
But there he was, with me in his arms,
smiling as if he could never be sad.
But a family holds its secrets, and he became the biggest one.
Why are you crying, Daddy? Does it still hurt?
After all of these years - of course.
It's the memories, the soul, the breaking heart.
Its the love, and the love that was taken away, and the family.
And I believe this was the silent lesson I learned through a grown man's tears.
That it's not really about the body.