I will not be my parents.


For every negative comment they exchange,
I will have something positive to say.
For every door that slams,
I will hold one open.

I will not let myself bring unhappiness to the table, then wonder why supper is so bitter.

it's becoming easier
to hear your name and feel nothing.
Head and Heart fought a battle that only ended
when the Heart swelled with a Love that hurt to hold,
until the Head's gentle reminder
that this was not Love,
it was Pain.
blinding Pain.
but like all blows to the body and mind
Time crushes Pain into a dull ache, a numbness remaining
long in the Heart after the feeling has gone.
but the Head holds the knowledge that this was not Love.
it was Pain.
blinding Pain.
and it's becoming easier.

How is it I feel the way I do?
Living in this generation often leaves me quite confused, broken, bruised.

Let it be not that which you may believe.
Step aside the actions and reset what you perceive.
Grieve not about that which you verily have grieved.
Take a hit, be SURE to dodge the next. Duck and weave. Duck and weave.

At this cafe, where we used to meet,
remember the years I would arrive
just for you to greet.
Besides school I was stuck with that sad old job,
it took my time, but you came like a thief,
my heart to rob.
And then I found a new meaning with that little job,
as another way to see you,
I came in early to finish quick all I needed to do.

I remember that perfect spot you chose,
just for me,
for no matter where I went,
there was always you I could see.

Where after maybe cleaning up some broken plates,
I can steal a glance from you smiling away at a good book,
but once and a while you'd bless me, with even just one blessed look.

It was at this Cafe,
that we'd meet,
and it was here,
where I take my seat.

I wait for you, at your favorite corner,
but this time,
together.

have i forgotten what it feels like to be needed?
i'd rather gouge my eyes out  than look in the mirror,
and it's not the reflection that disgusts me.
it's this small person inside of me,
hiding.
too much of a coward to actually be passionate,
too big of a ***** to actually fight for what i want,
to actually stand up for myself.
i want to **** the person inside,
not myself.
i love myself. it's the doubt that lives inside me
who needs to die.
he whispers in my ears
that i need to cave in again,
that i need to fall apart.
if i need him gone, i may need
to hurt myself too.

This page is a graveyard.

I bury my secrets
beneath the gentle curves of vowels and the razor edges of consonants.

Each written word
holds a bit of truth,
a bitter truth
that thrashes
in violent desperation
to be known.
I suffocate it
with *******,

and it becomes nothing
but a ghost
that stirs the reader's heart.

I am sitting
on the brick
and concrete
bomb shelter
with Fay;
she is looking
at the coal wharf,
I am sorting
cigarette cards
to swap at school.

Do you know
where Jesus was born?
She asks.

In a stable wasn't it;
laid him in a manger,
I think it says.

She nods.

But in St Matthew
it says the Magi
came to the house.

Who were Magi?

The three Wise Men,
although it doesn't
actually say
how many there were,
it just says they.

I put the cigarette cards
in my jacket pocket
and gaze at her.

What's it matter?
People will believe
what they want to believe.

But the nuns said
it's the truth,
Fay says.  

I like her
pale complexion,
her blue eyes
and her fair hair,
well groomed
by her mother.

When I asked Daddy
he said not
to question the nuns,
but to accept
what they said.

I look at her light
blue flowery dress,
the white ankle socks,
the black shoes.

What do you think?
she asks.

Perhaps he was born
in a stable,
but they moved him
into a house
before the Wise Guys
got there,
I say, not caring
a hoot,
but wanting
to ease her worry.

Do you think so?

Sure,
makes sense to me,
I say, seeing
a coal wagon
leave the coal wharf
drawn by a large horse.

But in pictures
in my Bible
it shows them
entering a stable
with shepherds.

I watch the coal wagon
go along
Rockingham Street
and out of sight
under the railway bridge.

What's the truth?
She asks,
looking at her hands
in her lap.

I don't know,
Sweetie, I reply,
and I couldn't
give a crap.