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Nat Lipstadt Sep 13
Nat Lipstadt Jul 2013
Why I Always Carry Tissues

To My Children:

I'm laughing at myself,
As I am prone to do because
Why I Always Carry Tissues
Is the title of a poem
I write for you.

There is a story here,
Of parenting, and responsibilties
That transcends yourself, defines me,
Vis-a-vis you,
then and there, and maybe now.

When you were small,
I took you by the hand,
The cement canyons, trails & rivers
of West Eighty Six Street,
Together, we would ford.

Periodically, as Fathers are prone to do,
Your hand, from my hand,
I would release
So you could fall down,
All on your own.

It bemused me that I could see
Three or four paces ahead of thee
Exactly which crack,
Upon which you would trip,
And come crying back to me.

That was then.
And now,
Yes, no more,

But I always had tissues
to dry your eyes
And no surprise,
I still do,
Always will.

These days, they,
more likely used to dry mine,
As I have forded that Styxy river,
When crossed, you spend more of the day,
Liking Back more,
Then looking ahead.

No matter, by right and tradition,
It is still my mission, that
when you need, when you bleed,
as I know you surely shall,
These pocket tissues will be there
Ready, willing and able, fully capable,
of snatching away your tears.

When you need,
When you bleed,
And you surely shall,
These pockets of mine,
Of tissue made,
Are waiting for your tears,
And you, to fill them,
For without them,
Their raison d'etre is unfulfilled.

These used tissues are my history book,
Re the art of loving, and the arch-i-texture of life,
Of tears and hearts,
And concrete spills,
That need knees to be complete.

That is why you will find me, without fail,
Ready, willing and able, holding my
White Badge of Courage at the ready,
Waiting patiently, for my mission to be redeemed,
Missions known as parenting schemes.

The scheme is clear, even if
my tissues you no longer request,
You will let your own babies
fall n' fail, then take their tears
Put them in your pocket,
keep them forever wet,
Like my memories of you
the ones I cherish best...

Perhaps a tradition
We will start,
Unsightly bulges in our pocket rear,
Where we will store our packet of saver-saviors
Removers of our dear one's fears.

If we are truly wise
Those tissued memories
We will keep,
Die among them contented,
Knee-scraped deep
When tears fall...

1. Written in 2008, updated today 7/2013, adding a word here and there.
2. When I wrote this, there were no more babies in my life; now the next generation, a new set of boo-boos
3. Yes, I still, always have tissues on me someplace,
a habit started over thirty years ago,
when my children where toddlers.
4. The poem I love the best.
Karen M Feb 13
Boys are like tissues. -unnamed Twitter follower

If they're soft, they usually have two sides.
Both sides, so smooth and delicate, easy
To rip apart and expose the inner roughness.
It's fun to tilt her head back and gently lay
One of the halves on her lips and blow
Firm enough to get them soaring
High on endorphins and ******
Them out of the air, crumple,
And toss into the trash with the rest.

If they're rough, they're good
For one use only. They may be irritating,
But they get the job done. It's cheap,
They come in bulk, and always
Fail to clean up the streaky mess
Left behind for her hand
To finish.

If she's lucky, they'll have aloe
And lotion and designer brands
Made for those who are hard
To please. She'll be spoiled
By the silky smooth shine
On her face, but not one
Can keep up with the wear
And tear of being used
Over and over and over.

Once they're damaged, they're done.
She can't use them anymore. They know
The tricks. They know how they've been torn
Apart and crumpled and disposed without thought.
The smaller the pieces, the harder they are to manipulate
And bend to her every will. With one gone, what does it matter?
There's still the rest of the box, or the pack, or the cylinder.
Fifty. Maybe a hundred. All the more to her disposal.
Yes, yes. She knows what they think of her.
They all throw and shout and spit
Those filthy labels at her face.
But it's just another
Tissue used.
Phi Kenzie Sep 2018
Sniffle on the train
a sneeze among the trees
bless you at your desk
sleeve wipe when out of sight

So sticky an issue
your own mother wouldn’t kiss you

Should’ve brought tissues
Hunter Green Sep 2018
Have all the instigations of my heart issues
dawned insinuations of my used tissues,
Or am I the one to blame?
Can I trust a mind that never stays the same?
How are there no answers,
in the windows of your eyes?
Why aren’t my instincts strong enough to overcome these lies
I make up in my mind,
the ones that bring peace,
but only for a time in between my insanity?
For the very next moment I’m wise enough, I wish I was always wise enough, to come back to reality.
Hg Aug 2018
when i was love sick
i kept all my snot

these pages are tissues
where i blew my thoughts
Andrew T Oct 2016
I look at your face and it never shows you’re down
A smile spread around that’s taped over the frown
Concealer under your eyes to hide the long nights
Hearing your mom fight has your big headphones on tight

But pop melodies can’t drown out all the loud screams
Dishes left unclean, parents as scared as the teen
Food rots in the fridge, “Keep Out” sign hangs from the door
Damp tissues ignored, scattered across the floor

Try to make her laugh, but my jokes aren’t funny
Shows love through money, dries up the nose when runny
But the low hats and dark shades only cloaked her eyes
Wouldn’t notice my, mouth curved in when I’ve spoken lies

I bet you did see both my pupils wedged with glass  
In sports getting last, cuz I was too effing smacked
Our lamps burnt out, the light in the house faded
In school berated, little girl how did you make it?

You saved the castle when I couldn’t be controlled
You took on new roles, cried for me to be consoled
Writing gave me back my voice when I became mute  
My leaves wouldn’t shoot if you didn’t water the roots

You, you are my blood, without blood my heart won’t pump
When considered a flunk, blood made my heartbeat jump
Really didn’t mean for my lack of energy
To make enemies, but what’s done is now memory  

What happened to me, to us, was unexpected
When it got hectic, everyone was affected
But my family, and Vicky especially you
Kept stable and true and that is how we got through
Cat Fiske May 2015
My love for him,
Is greater then,
my love for myself,

He has wiped away tears,
Shed for the past year,
I name him tissue box boy,

Because of you can sit,
And here all my ****,
Your a used tissue,

But I love you,
But I can't *******,
Pull out your Kleenex now,

Because of a guy,
Who did things to me,
You let me cry,
on your shoulder,

Because you tell me he was,
Wrong and always will be,
And I sniffle more,

Because you hold me,
When I need it and it's a lot,
And I wet your shirt,

Because you don't care,
I may never *******,
And you may cry now too,

But you don't need that,
To love me,
And I stop crying for a minute,

I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry,
And you just love me,
And hold me,

Because love isn't about,
Physicalness it's love,
And with that,
You reply your empty box,
For next time.
Tissue box boy.
A little poem

— The End —