I have made mistakes in the past
I have been broken
I thought you are ready to leave
Yet I was forgiven

I was desperate for love
Been desperately giving myself away
I thought you are ready to leave
Yet I was still forgiven

I told you too many lies
Even While looking at your eyes
I thought you are ready to leave
Yet I was still forgiven

I told you I cannot trust
To them it was nothing but lust
I thought you are ready to leave
Yet I was still forgiven

I didn't believe that you love me
Yet I was still forgiven
I'll be nothing but a misery
Yet I'll still be forgiven

They cut it down, and where the pitch-black aisles
Of forest night had hid eternal things,            
They scaled the sky with towers and marble piles    
To make a city for their revellings.                
                                                                
White and amazing to the lands around              
That wondrous wealth of domes and turrets rose;    
Crystal and ivory, sublimely crowned                
With pinnacles that bore unmelting snows.          
                                                                
And through its halls the pipe and sistrum rang,    
While wine and riot brought their scarlet stains;  
Never a voice of elder marvels sang,                
Nor any eye called up the hills and plains.        
                                                                
Thus down the years, till on one purple night      
A drunken minstrel in his careless verse            
Spoke the vile words that should not see the light,
And stirred the shadows of an ancient curse.        
                                                                
Forests may fall, but not the dusk they shield;    
So on the spot where that proud city stood,        
The shuddering dawn no single stone revealed,      
But fled the blackness of a primal wood.

Falling leaves hurry to gather
at one worn headstone after another
like a funeral party uncertain where
lies the lost loved one it grieves;;

Time and wind tug on the memory
left in this absent minded cemetery
no one comes visit but weather and me
and the dead lying under the trees

have stories nobody can read.

The beauty of a woman
is in the poems she's wrote,
the dreams she's weaved
and all the stories she's told.

The beauty of a woman
is in the adventures she's taken,
the lives she's touched
and all the minds she's awakened.

The beauty of a woman
is in the caring she gives,
the sincerity in her laughter,
and the passion in her griefs.

It's not the expensive clothes she owns,
her body size, the diamonds she's worn.
Measure not the beauty of woman in gold,
for the beauty of a woman is reflected in her soul.

What are you running from?
What are you running to?
Is it the past?
Maybe the future?
The tears?
The memories?
Why do you run?

Every book I open
Every story I read
Another adventure I start
Another Life I begin

I live with them
And laugh
And run
And cry with them

I just don't belong
Not in the real world
But however unlikely
In literacy I find a place

In the end
The pages ripped my heart
They pull me apart
They ruined my life
And they changed who I am

Yet without them
My life is nothing
I am incomplete

The author who holds the knife
Dangles it over my head
With each character's death
A new tear in my soul

A new life in literacy
A gift not all can receive
Without literacy  
I would have no life at all

Such is the curse of the reader

Do not feel sorry from them
Feel sorry for those those who do not read
For those who live but one life
A life a ignorace at that

There is no such thing as a child of an alcoholic. There are children, and then there are alcoholics. One will never harmonize with the other.

Because alcoholics are never parents. They are shells, empty casings of love mixed with a burning taste of whiskey.

They are echoes of slurred, “Goodnight, I love you.” and “See you in the morning.” Each word filled with love, but blinded by the haze of liquor, so strong it fills your eyes with tears.

But most importantly, a child of an alcoholic will never be a child. No matter their age, they have gained the experience of those five times their age. They have watched life end with each tip of the bottle, but begin again when the sun breaks through their window.

I read stories about children who spend their days without a care in the world. And as a child, I wanted nothing more than that for myself. I wanted the carelessness, not the impossible burden of responsibility and secrecy that I held, hand in hand with resentment and hatred for the people who raised me.

There is no such thing as a child of an alcoholic. It’s not that we don’t exist— we do. But a child will never be a child when their parents can never be a parent.