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Dear Dad;
I hope you get to read this one day,
For it is filled with things I’ve always wanted to ask or say,
I’ll start with the questions first,
Since what I want to say may be far worst,
Why was abortion the first thing you asked of my mother when you heard about me?
Was I such a disgrace to you? I wonder if when you found out she didn’t **** me if it made your heart ache or your eyes bleed,
Why did you deny me a father? Was it because you just didn’t want me from the start?
Would your life be better if my mom had acted from you said the command ABORT?
Why did you deny me as your child when your wife asked?
Was I such an embarrassment to you? Was accepting me such a hard task?
Why couldn’t you just be my father? Why couldn’t you just accept me?
I tried contacting you but you just abandoned me, I guess it just wasn’t mean to be,
All these questions and more keep hurting me, they parade in my mind,
The abandonment and the denial among other things pushed me to suicide,
These are the things I’ve always wanted to say,
I hope you understand and not take them the wrong way,
I hope you get all you want in life,
I hope you live to see me become a wife,
I hope you don’t come to me when I blossom into the woman you almost robbed me of becoming,
If God forbid and you start suffering I hope to me you don’t come running,
I hope you live to regret the way you treated me,
I hope a day will come when you’ll wish you accepted me from I was just a mere seed,
I wish that a day will come where you’ll feel the pain I felt when you decided to leave me on that plantation,
I pray to God you don’t recognize me when I get my masters; for if it was up to you I wouldn’t have gotten an education,
Most of all I want to say thank you,
Thank you for being the first man to break my heart, my mind, my soul and trust; because of you I found it hard to believe things even when they were true,
I have one regret, I regret crying over you, someone who didn’t want me,
But now I am strong, over you I no longer bleed,
Goodbye father, I wish you well,
But in the sadness caused by you, I will no longer dwell.
This is to my father, who never wanted me.
Spike Harper Feb 11
The world is grey.
Well...slightly more so now.
The nerve endings have healed.
Yet the numbness has lingered.
I stumble on my own feet getting out of bed.
Is it that hard to believe I’m simply.
I get more lost with compass in hand.
Although I can tell you how to find north.
Theoretical knowledge always worked in school.
But my life mentor is absent.
What happens when there is no teacher in gym.
A bunch of kids wandering the grounds.
Some fighting.
More aimlessly wagging their tongues.
Trying to figure out the social heirarchy.
Then there is me.
Smoking a cig at the edge of the property.
Day dreaming of past events.
Even then I secluded myself.
Unknowingly laying the ground work for the next ten years.
Countless routines repeated with different faces and surroundings.
Sometimes even the words would transition into the other.
In those moments I was living faux dejavu.
Losing my mind to my own reflections shadow.
If only I had read the letter My past self had written to my future self telling present me to listen to the mistakes I already made.
Maybe things would have been different.
The possibilities is what destroys the intellegent mind.
Not pain.
It’s the “why”.
The only question that will truly have no answer if asked enough.
And I can’t seem to stop asking.
It’s strange. Not for the fact that i feel this way but because i don’t know any other way to be. I don’t consider it holding it in because it’s not a burden. My fathers memory will never be a burden to me. His that is a different story.
StoryTallinn Feb 11
When he was my age,
my father was already a dad.
At twenty-five I still drink as much *****
He told me: “you are making your mother sad”

My colleagues all have lovers
I am married to an imaginary dog
That cute bartender was flirting with me
So I could start a relationship with beer

I don’t know what annoys more my roommates
My clumsiness or my messiness
I blamed my fictional pet
That animal should try to stay sober

My friends stop talking to me
Once they started dating
I should try to figure out my problems
But not today, it’s Friday
Don't worry my life is not that sad! I was just listening to some Pop-punk while writting....
Mihle Mdashe Feb 9
I've written 4 suicide letters, each one better than the last. I'd thought I'd mastered the art of saying goodbye through a piece of page. Nothing can compare to the last one I wrote, so poetic; I knew I couldn't use my previous ones cause if I did no one would see there was at least something that came out of my depression. In and out of psychologists rooms - I swear this is exhausting, but ma wants me to get better. I laugh at her cause better is only like my father's presence; it ain't there. Suicide letter number 4 had me believing for sure I wouldn't make it out alive, there was just something about the way I had stalked all those words in the dictionary, I put some light in there hoping I'd see the same light when I'd finally come to rest. But I couldn't, if I could I would; overdosing, drowning, popping a vein, all that and I couldn't do it. There's something in the way nurses look at me that make me despise hospitals, I hate the sympathy on their faces and mostly I hate them for having that motherly affection. Ain't nothing worse than doctors telling you to rest when the only rest you need would've been death. You see what I feel is a type of tired that sleep can't fix, or maybe sleep 6ft under would fix it, I don't know honestly.
Megan Hammer Feb 12
As I listen to Otis Redding on the harbor, boats named after people float around;
Boats named by fishermen who think just a little too much.
They come out everyday like Hemingway Jrs; the old men and their sea.

December does not feel right here: It’s not the same without a Chicago winter,
But this harbor’s got my father on my mind.

He used to run numbers for a local casino & now he writes numbers in a sudoku box on Sundays.
The days of wild adventure on the streets of Germany are what he sees when he looks at his beer mugs.

and when he’s had a little Heineken, Marlboro, and a spin of his record player,
I know that no one else should be in the room.

He shows his thoughts in photos: His winters spent coming back home to feed his family,
Keeping warm in a house with one heater, snow, noses blown in hankies, Uncle Frankie,
Harry playing jazz in the living room, and walking to school in the cold.

But there are no photos of him - and there wouldn’t be -
When he snuck away to the harbor with his friends.
We tend not to talk about them anymore, but he still remembers where they lived.

And sometimes, I catch a glimpse of him - with his Heineken and his Marlboro and his music -
I catch him as he smiles in hiding while his eyes confide in a light I do not see,
And when I do,
I know that my father is still on that harbor.
The first time I saw him it happened
The person I was, was no more.
The feelings, the happiness, it all added up, love washed over like the waves to the shore.

His fist gripped my finger so tightly and his love gripped my soul even more, and I knew from that moment until my days will be done, that I'll love him, oh love him, oh love him,
My son.
My son's.
leah Dec 2018
Do you remember that night?
the night told me that you were going to be a dad
how scared you were
how you wasn't sure if you loved her
and now you were trapped in this "family"

of course you remember
i don't know why i asked

but you only remember the fear,
the fear of becoming a father

But i remember the joy
how happy i was for you
because i knew
there was no doubt in my mind
that you were going to be the best dad in the world.

and you are.

- leah
You were playing the game from day one
yes, you won

how could a father do that to his son
his only one?

I do not understand, and I do not even want to
rather what I'll do
is play the game too
and have lots of fun
yes me, your won
One to Won.
Crystals tumble down encompassing me
Clusters getting trapped in my spiderweb hair
Snow tottering from the sky feels numbing
But somehow, I'm warm as a teapot
Juvenile thoughts in my head
I plunge into the snow
Flail my arms and legs about...
Standing back up, I gaze at my angel
I crash onto it as I notice its unique features
You can't discern my feminine figure
Or how short I am
My angel is taller, wider than I
He appears to be bald in the middle of his head
His jacket has the faint smell of your Marlboro Smooths...
I made a snow angel today, or so I thought.
But when I stared at him, my fathers soft blue eyes peered back.
The voice Feb 5
Aside from the black nail polish,
My own personal act of rebellion,
I see my father's hands.

I have my mami's nose,
and eyes,
and lip shape,
and even her forehead.

We have the same forehead,
But my hands,
When I see them I see my father's hands.

Maybe I see them in an attempt,
to portray an image of his existence,
To acknowledge that he actually exists
even though he hasn't been by my side

My hands are darker than my mother's
They are slightly chubbier,
Even the darker little hairs that decorate them,
They do not look like hers at all,
so naturally, they have to look like his.

I am more reminded of him when I grip them
So tightly I almost cut the flow of blood.
So strongly the blood rushed to blush the tips of my fingers

The rage. The anger. The reminder that I am your daughter
That I carry your last name
That I am still and Forever will be,
a part of you
and you a part of me

I did not choose that.
I did not choose the anger or the love

When I have you in front of me,
I will take these, my hands
that look like yours
grip them tighter than ever before
with determination in my eyes,
aim and...

I learned how to box in an attempt,
to shape these hands to be less like you
Fighting hands, unlike yours
Strong hands, much different to yours
Passionate hands, contrary to YOU

I wear the black nail polish, to remind me and you
That these hands are yours,
tainted by the dark melody of the last kiss you gave me
Before you let me walk away.

I wear these hands masked by power,
but deep down a reminder that I am a woman,
Despite my hands being like yours.
A reminder that had you stayed,
I would probably not have the education I now have.

I look down at my hands and see yours.
Despite the black nail polish, they look like yours.
With a layer of love, willing to forgive and love
But unwilling to Forget!
This is what happens when a professor asks a good question in class. "Whose hands beside your own do you see when you look down at them"
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