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Uzziah Ruffin Sep 2024
I lay awake at night,
Pondering how paths diverged,
With the underlying question
Of what could have been

If only you had been there,
Guiding as a father should,
Perhaps then I wouldn't feel
Like a mere void in existence.

I cannot face my reflection,
Without questioning my essence,
Trying on masks, seeking one unbroken,
In the labyrinth of self-discovery.

It's all so vexing,
A lamentation of lost chances,
I resort to scars to uncover,
What remnants of you remain.

And the ache intensifies,
Knowing siblings exist, but unseen,
Do they yearn for connection,
Do they dream of knowing me?

Why must I be ensnared,
In this cycle of longing,
I endure the weight of ignorance,
Of a life left unexplored.

I wish these emotions could resonate,
And impart the depth of my sorrow,
You do not merit the title of father,
You are but a stranger I regret "knowing"
My father was never in my life pretty much. He used to text me and call me for less than 3 months and then completely disappear for a few years and do it all over again until I had enough.
kay Sep 2021
you,
who acquire a very delicate heart
was hurt too many times
that you don’t feel pain anymore.

you,
who became numb of all things
has finally found everything tedious
and live in absolute indifference.

for you,
the world only holds the color
of black and white,
even with no shade of grey
or everything in between.

it has become a part of who you are,
in solitude, utter numbness, apathetic

empty.
nothing.
this is who you truly are, no?
Haughty words
of wine and new lovers
frolic on your lips;
and fall on me with daggers and Greek fire.
To turn my insides to opposition
coiled with serpent knots,
staying my eyes from slumbering fantasies,
for it is retribution who hangs the stars on the night.

I fear you have cut deeper than I had permitted
when you set your steel against my ribs;
but let me not drink too heavily
from the cup of self-pity.

This was not undeserved,
earned with pleasantries and ingratitude;
but rather double edged words,
playing smoke and mirrors
to conceal my cowardly suspicions of defeat.

Finally, I have lost my appetite
for this ****** game.
My armor is worn and blood rusted,
exposing the wounds I have been rewarded
from years of waging war.

Perhaps there is still redemption
from the blood-stains on my sword.
The scales of love and loss
should be equal.
But I have never found
through years of calibrations,
adjustments to accuracy
and precision,
these scales to ever be fair.

Loaded so lovingly over time.
The weight of moments 
tender and shared,
vulnerable and vivacious,
cruelly wiped out.

Tipped off the scales                                             
all at once,                                              
sending the balance                                              
plummeting.­                                                          
.
MadameClaws Sep 2024
i ****** handfuls of sand
and envisage i am an hourglass.
i enumerate the seconds in my head,
but my fingers leak more grains
than i can keep pace with,
far too fleeting to be unerring.
this nonsuccess only induces me
to think of time and its relativity;
of a man who complains that it’s only tuesday,
of a man who complains that it’s already tuesday.
i dub my left hand frank,
and my right jacob,
then wonder why it’s still monday.
how long has it been monday?
Dreary eyed and worn tired,
On last legs, to stand defiant
Against the falling away of time,
Heavy handed and unceasing.

I remember.

Through the haze of blue white mist,
A familiar feeling,
A perceiving glance,
Breaks forth a spring of fresh thought
That flows down the back of my mind
To whet the stone,
And let memory sharpen.

I remember.

Restored from grey depths
Of dismal slumber;
To stand tall once more,
And seize the joy and pain
That first wove it into me.

I remember.

To hold that moment at times edge,
And share it once more
with the heart's palette.
To give colour to thought,
And meaning to the mind.

I remember.

And so the memory carries on
Till the stone is dry,
And the blade is weak and worn.
The withered thought, falls to rest
Under the pauper's headstone.

...Remember?
Children should not be left to cry alone.

They need someone beside them, even if it won't solve the problem. [Many problems cannot be solved.]

They need someone to stroke their hair and hold their hand,
to dry their tears and wipe their snotty noses.
They need someone to tell them it is going to be ok, even when it isn't going to be ok. [Especially when it isn't going to be ok.]

There is a little girl crying alone.

She does not muffle the sound of her crying. She wants her parents to hear.
She thinks that if they hear her crying, they will finally understand, and they will make everything alright.
Or maybe they will stroke her hair and hold her hand. [That would be alright.]

They don't come.

Maybe they can't hear her. Maybe they're busy. Maybe they didn't notice. [Maybe they don't care.]

They aren't coming.

The little girl's tears trickle off her cheeks,
making her pillow damp,
making her skin sticky with the salt. [She falls asleep.]

They don't come.

[There is a young woman crying in her childhood bedroom. Briefly, she worries about the embarrassment of her parents finding her here, crying like a little girl. They don't come. She laughs.]
Emma Peters Sep 2024
When the end is near
The lights turn off
And the sky turns black
Will you stay my dear?

When the end is near
The animals start to run
And the wind gets stronger
Will you stay my dear?

When the end is near
The people around us are all gone
And we hear nothing but silence
Will you stay my dear?
you used to sit on me and swing  
cry and swing  
laugh and swing  
tell me of your dreams and fears  
and love,  
as we slipped back and forth  
through the air  
hung from the strong branches  
of our tree  

the ground beneath me  
well worn dirt, surrounded by grass  
The evidence of our days  
and hours  
carving out the earth together  

I am still here,  
tethered to this tree and waiting  
the ground beneath me  
growing greener and more empty  

sometimes you will come  
and sit on me again  
and swing,  
the beauty of purpose  
flooding through me for a moment  

but now when you swing  
it is mostly quiet  
like you are here but I am not  
you do not speak to me,  
do not dig in your heels and toes  
scrape the dirt and push off-
the ground beneath me  
forgets your feet as soon as you are gone  

and I am still here,  
tethered to this tree and waiting  
the ground beneath me  
growing green and empty
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