How we treat ourselves
Is the tenor upon which we represent ourselves
The hell that raised us
Doesn't have to be the hell that sustains us
We are blessed to have our own minds
To choose the course we want for our own lives
Our course was meant to be a horizontal one
And it can only be undone by the One who called us to be his daughters and sons
We are not judges
We weren't put here to condemn
I believe it behooves all of us to leave that for Him
And while we may disagree whole heartedly by someone else's choices
What right do the rest of us have to be disrespectful and poisonous
We may have taken the traditional route and even made our lives better
But to make light of someone else's LIFE
Does little to make any of us better
It makes us lesser
Because in the end we are all the same
And we are all just one bad decision
From sharing the same blame

Dads,
Some kids we raise
Will abandon us,
Despise, deplore
And anger us.

     What can we do?

Some sons will denounce
To even some score;
Some daughters will leave
To dance and *****.

     Dads, we're trapped forever more.

Some daughters will stay
And tend the home;
Some sons will sit
In cold cells alone.
They're worlds apart
From what we'd expect.

     Dads, I'm not finished yet.

Some sons give sons their father's name,
Some daughters so proud they keep the same;
Some teach and preach and heal and toil,
They've learned their lessons well.
You're so puffed you're buttons pop,
You never want this life to stop.

     Dads, take it from me.

You've done your duty,
You've won the game,
Take it from me,
No two are the same.

I never got to practice
So you'll have to forgive
My mistakes.
I would love to get it perfect
But I don't get any more takes.

I never knew what it was to love
Til I held you in my arms
And if it were left up to me
You never would know harm.

I know that there'll be times
When we argue like we've never argued before
But look around you sweetheart.
No-one could love you more.

And as you grow, I'll do my best
To steer you in the right direction
But go easy on me gorgeous girl,
My name is not perfection.

When you have children of your own
And I'm their doting gran
I'll tell you that you're doing great,
I'll be your biggest fan.

And when I'm lying on my death bed
And you still make me smile,
Know that it's not goodbye forever,
But only a little while

Old Betsy is my shotgun and she's something that men end up dreading.
When my daughters get pregnant, Old Betsy is responsible for shotgun weddings.
When men impregnate my daughters, they try to run.
But Old Betsy stops them, she's one hell of a shotgun.
When one man tried to run, Old Betsy put holes in both of his **** cheeks.
He married my daughter and he couldn't sit down for about twelve weeks.
I give the men two choices, marry my daughters or be buried.
When I point Old Betsy at them, they choose to get married.
I make men do right by my daughters because I'm their Pa.
Because of Old Betsy's influence, I now have eight Sons-in-law.

But if I had a daughter, a young woman
I saw drowning in needless pain,

I would say to her:

Are you certain you would be happy,

if only:

you got him back,
or he wanted you back,
or you lived somewhere else
or you were someone else
or were taller, shorter,
thinner, stronger, weaker
just different,
anyone, anywhere, anytime
but yourself?

Sorry, but you are you. Be you.
Insist upon yourself. Be fierce
in your resolve. Men are in awe
of fierce women, really.
Take back your heart.
It belongs to you alone.

You do not need to be fixed, so don't
look for someone else to do the job.

Remember: "You're only pretty as you feel,
only pretty as you feel inside."

And on that there are no limits
except the ones you create.

But then, I never had a daughter,
so what do I know?

   'mce

How much debt can a father build?
Oh, as much as his daughter's heart can carry.

Then, you held my hand.
Enveloped in love and tenderness,
your grip provided the armor I needed
to walk another day.

A story I read yesterday
about a father and son playing chess.
They were sitting over the board for hours now
arguing who is the king.
Which of those pieces wooden on that surface flat,
should be the one to be king.
The son was thinking and thinking, but he could not tell.
Troubled after a while he thought,
why his father asked him that.
"Who is the king? Who has always been king?"
Countless times before they played,
the question always remained the same.
The father, his son, he persistently asked -
who is the king?
The son like his father,
he wasn't an easy mind.
He wouldn't give up to a question so simple;
He was determined to prove his father wrong.
So many riddles by his father he cracked easy,
but this one, just wouldn't come to mind.
Protect it! Protect the king!
- said the father, with warm smile upon his son.
And the son deep in thought with fingers crossed
was just looking over the board;
..even more and more confused..
Moments ago I watched something.
It was a memo for a dead man.
On a beach that man was the father.
He played with his child around.
They were swirling in circles in the salty air,
before he rode into his last sunset.
Then the question hit me again - who is the king?
The screen went dark and the lights flickered to light.
Elevating murmur filled with clap, filled the room.
I turned back and I saw..
That father, that child, over and over again.
..everywhere, the whole room..
One jumping around, one sitting calm,
one excited, can't wait for fun,
the other just looking for his last piece of popcorn.
I watched upon those daughters and sons,
and then I realised who is the king.