"christmases" poems
There is nothing more unsettling
than a teenage Christmas.
The coming of age
when adults find their inner child again
and you have to try and get rid of yours.
11 is fine.
Part of you still believes Santa put the presents under tree.
12 is also okay,
just a little less pixie dust stirs in the stomach on Christmas Eve.
13, 14 and 15 are tricky.
You don't want to look babyish by getting too excited,
so you shrug it off and ask 'Santa' for a mobile phone,
a laptop,
a TV,
until by 15
you ask for the most 'grown up' present of all.
"I just want money."
The words burn your lips and tongue like acid,
a yearning for the sensation of a gift you can unwrap
tugging in your rib cage.
You can't buy that.
16, 17 and 18 are Christmases tinged with nostalgia.
Little ghosts of the younger you run down the stairs on Christmas morning,
feet clad in slippers and Power Rangers pjyamas askew,
whilst you follow in procession,
almost a funeral.
It's not that you don't like Christmas.
It's not that you don't love your family.
It's not that you don't feel a fire light in your belly when you bite into a mince pie,
it's not that the battered Christmas videos your family replay each year don't still make you smile,
it's not even that you've gotten too old for it all.
Have you?
Slippers and tiny fists batter against advent calender doors,
begging you to open them.
When you're 19 you do.
You let them out and let them rush to rip open their presents under the tree.
You let them eat their selection box first before dinner.
You let them cry when the Snowman melts
and you let them laugh and not mock heave when your father chases your mother with mistletoe.
You let the ghosts become holograms you can play in your mind like a projector and slides,
no longer a need to leave holly by their graves
but a chance to remember and smile.
You let them be happy.
Dec 17, 2013
Dec 17, 2013 at 10:08 AM UTC
that night, i wore a polo shirt.
i thought *hey, i'm going to a friend's
dorm, no need to dress up, right?*
so i wore a polo shirt, a yellow and blue and pink
thing. i'd bought it from a charity shop
only weeks earlier, when i was still exploring
a new university town
and finding not-so-hidden gems;
and sure, it was three sizes too big
but it was comfortable, and made me feel safe.
turns out, you didn't care about polo shirts
or tank tops. you cared about what was underneath
and i was drunk enough to let you - or,
well, not really let you, but i didn't need to dress up
so i wore baggy clothes and a smile
so i had half a bottle of jack daniels
and i had a nineteen year old point to prove
and i had a pill that you gave me
and i had - sorry, have - a therapist's bill.
but this isn't about you. i don't write about you.
i make a point of not writing about you,
actually. which is to say that i write about you
in a way that doesn't let you hurt me anymore.
i write about what i was wearing
(did i deserve it? in my 1970s male t-shirt?)
or what i was drinking
(it was university)
or how i tried to throw myself into a river
in the aftermath
(but i didn't, because i got thirsty, and i didn't
want to die thirsty, so i went home).
no, i'm writing about the polo shirt i was wearing.
cotton, i think. polyester, probably.
the amazing technicolour haze of am i sober enough for this?
who knows how many iterations
of the same lancaster charity shop
it circled through, old men with families
and wives and kids -
it probably saw birthdays and christmases
and, safely tucked in the back of a closet,
shielded itself from the almost-crisis of cuban missiles.
and then, me. a nineteen year old
branching out into the world for the first time;
a lover of poetry, maker of music, naïve and beautiful.
then, it was just a polo shirt, and i wore it
as long as it was laundered, for a month or so,
until december. not that i stopped wearing it
because it was cold. it just reminded me of hands
and hands and hands and
**** how many hands can a man have?
how long will i have to feel them?
i didn't shower the day after, just slept.
a hangover, right? just a hangover.
and then, when the hot water in my dorm
daily ticked on, i washed every inch of myself
to get rid of you, and your foam banana shower gel
that your mother probably told you to buy.
so, what compensation do you owe me?
what price should i put on things?
you touch it, so you pay for it.
one charity shop shirt, three pounds please.
Jan 26, 2022
Jan 26, 2022 at 10:55 PM UTC
(Sing along to the tune 'Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer).
This is a futuristic Christmas,
Sing along in an ode,
Global warming's reached the North Pole,
That's the end of ice and snow.
The Arctic's now a surf beach,
All your gifts out of reach,
There's some really naughty bad elves,
They're keeping all the gifts for themselves!
Where did good ole Santa go?
He's been on the **
Santa came in bad girls' lane,
And he never was seen again!
Now Santa's got survivor baggage,
Mrs. Santa tossed away his clothes,
She divorced dear old Santa,
For hoing all the hoes!
Now there's a big beach party,
No Christmases ever again!
The bad girls are giving it to Santa,
No Christmases ever again!
This is a futuristic Christmas,
Global warming's reached the North Pole,
Sing along with Santa,
A futuristic Christmas in an ode!!!
(Let's Party...HO ** ** Samta knows where all the bad girls go!!)
Dec 3, 2015
Dec 3, 2015 at 2:58 PM UTC
Sometimes face painting
another persona
becomes plain,
her exaggerated giggles
don't slouch right
upon the rose buds,
(Mama noted them first -
cherishing her eleven winter's
awaited delivery)
so readily pruned
of actuality and truthfulness
ravaging an inner shadow -
still Eight Christmases young
playing on her fruit's swing,
running dough fingers across
tangerine bars.
Before memories
commence their chorus,
pleading forgiveness and
forget-me nots,
'No Vacancies'
is rehung within
her windows
moss embroidered.
Oct 25, 2011
Oct 25, 2011 at 2:07 PM UTC
I have to stop the thoughts of you
running around my head
I've no escape from their tantrums
they're reminders of hurtful things I've said
they're a look back into the places
where we lived and loved but fought
they're whispers of broken christmases
and looks at presents I never bought
they're kisses I never got from you
because I never made it home
overdosed on the night's escape
a rotted king, a hospital throne
they're the things that forever haunt me
following my footsteps back to the bar
they're the pain I've cause in everyone
in causing things to be the ways they are
hate me away
take back all I've borrowed
hate me because I betray
please hate away your sorrow
hate me for what I've taken and can't repay
despise my every sad tomorrow
hate me in ways that let you free from me
it's the only way I can ever give you peace
I have to stop the days I sadden you
I have to **** the way I make it true
that no matter what I promise
my actions won't prove a love for you
I've been without so much for so long
that I should appreciate all you have to give
I should've cherished your soft presence
in every day since, that I have lived
but I never put you above myself
I never helped or held you up so high
now the only way I affect you
is with a commitment that makes you cry
you always fully forgave me
for all the crimes that I'd commit
now it's you I have to protect
In asking your heart only for this split
hate me away
take back all I've stolen
hate me for the foul days
that could have shined and been golden
hate me for my every terrible display
despise me deeply, hate my emotions
hate me in ways that let you free from me
it's the only way
I
can ever give you peace
Sep 20, 2012
Sep 20, 2012 at 11:46 PM UTC
The annual cycle of friends and family, meeting
An oil and water duty of circumstance, intersecting
At Christmases and global conferences, occasioning
Probable murders at Christmas in the families, mixing
Their duty to drink but live distant lives apart, loving
The comfortable satisfaction of the distance, living
Their lives with social media connections, liking
The comfort of ignoring without unfriending
Their oil and water friends and family.
So
I have supplanted this duty with desire, allowing
Me to unfriend these occasional friends, becoming
Myself at last with a vicarious pleasure of, enjoying
Being a stereotypical “Grumpy Old Man”, relaxing.
Mar 6, 2014
Mar 6, 2014 at 9:58 AM UTC
You kissed her
and I cried.
At first, every tear was a memory.
That time at that party,
Missing buses to stay late,
Meeting the family, birthdays, Christmas,
Endless evenings in the garden,
Planes, trains and automobiles,
A Canadian summer,
The four of us, together.
Until that night when you stopped being you
And became 'him'.
Then, each tear was a plan we'd made.
Christmases, holidays in the Rockies,
A life abroad, living in the street you'd build.
A wedding.
You didn't notice I was crying.
You kissed her again and laughed.
The same way you kissed my sister
And laughed at our friend's jokes.
I willed you to look at me,
To ask why, so I could tell you:
I cried because
I miss you.
Mar 29, 2013
Mar 29, 2013 at 9:42 AM UTC
a romance stronger than *** egos not
ever known just a sweet touch of afar and
birthdays and christmases
keeping in touch through the
long distance fog of so many years
she makes cakes I taste
by her descriptions
only
we fuss
like we live together
and we have never touched
I told her my secrets she absorbed
and I held her through some dark times
in absentia just my voice
she cried on my virtual shoulder
I loved her so many times
in my imagination
we have made love so many times
by words
that's my muse
May 12, 2017
May 12, 2017 at 7:42 AM UTC
It is every young boys Christmas wish
to have a train beneath the tree
It is every young boys Christmas wish
But it is not a wish of me
To wake up near the fire
To feel the heat there by your side
It's not a Christmas wish of mine
It's not a wish that I've inside
I have a tree I decorate
It's a small one, but it's there
It's a bit beat up and tattered
It's been moved around it's share
I don't have a christmas stocking
You see, it just would not hold what I need
For my gift this Christmas season
Is to rid the world of greed
I'm one of the unfortunate
I have no place to go
But, I still like it at Christmas
When we get a little snow
I sleep inside at the mission
When the weather is real brisk
But, most times I do alright
Though at times, it is a risk
I used to have the visions
Of the Christmases that passed
But, with what I drink to keep me warm
The visions seldom last
I remember one good Christmas
We had turkey, and good wine
I'm not sure what year exactly
I think it was in '89
I used to have the wish list
Of every single boy
I wanted things at Christmas
I wanted every single toy
But at Christmas, every young boy
Wants that train, he wishes hard
But, I see a train around me
You see, I live in the train yard
The wish of every young boy
I see it 'round my tree
It's a real one that surrounds us
And I see it around me
I'm homeless and love Christmas
No matter what you think
I wish you Merry Christmas
Can you help me with a drink?
A fire, yes I've got one
The train, I've got a real one too
I just can't remember as many Christmas'
As I know I used to do
Nov 25, 2012
Nov 25, 2012 at 2:59 PM UTC
There is someone who I love
Someone who hurt this Christmas
And there are many others out there
Who are bereft of the brightest warmest sentiments the heart can experience
While the rest of us are ignorant of these happenings
All wrapped up in presents and drinking cheers
We fall short of being grateful for having somewhere to belong
For some the winter in their hearts is not nearly over when the holiday season is over
They are hurt from within and have yet to find somewhere to belong
It is sadness which confines me
The thought that my loved one goes sick
From within every Christmas
To think the winters in my love's soul
Are but shared by so many around the world
Yet the rest of us are careless, selfish and blinded by our needs
How many Christmases and winters would I spend in hurt and suffering
Just so that the one I love felt right at home for one Christmas night
How forgetful are we that a warm room and a petty meal
Might be a human necessity to subsist through the winter
But love and a sense of belonging is all that keeps us alive
We can not afford to not touch lives
And share our love and kindness with everyone
My loved one, if you ever fear you're alone
Don't worry God knows where you belong
If anything in my heart there is a place for you
If you feel alone you can belong with me
Strangers and enemies if you feel alone you can belong with me
Let us all be fearless in our efforts to share our blessings
We can not afford to not let others know they belong with us
It is a vicarious pain which I have come to assimilate as my own
The hurt which the one I love feels at times
And which many others feel all the same
The world is full of another type of hunger and yearning
Thus we shall not weaver in a journey
To help others find meaningfulness in their lives
And help them feel like they belong
If I could only accomplish to make the one I love feel a sense of belonging...
And if you feel like you can't make another feel like they belong
Because you yourself feel alone in this world
Please never give up the fight
Look within your self and know
There is someone out there like me
Yearning and waiting to let you know
Here...you are loved
Here...you are meaningful
Here...you belong
Look at a stranger's eyes and smile
Look within in their soul and find solace in their existence
There are more than six billion souls out there
And although on the outside we seem different
In the end we are all connected and we belong
Jun 14, 2011
Jun 14, 2011 at 5:38 AM UTC
I have to stop the thoughts of you
running around my head
I've no escape from their tantrums
they're reminders of hurtful things I've said
they're a look back into the places
where we lived and loved but fought
they're whispers of broken christmases
and looks at presents I never bought
they're kisses I never got from you
because I never made it home
overdosed on the night's escape
a rotted king, a hospital throne
they're the things that forever haunt me
following my footsteps back to the bar
they're the pain I've cause in everyone
in causing things to be the ways they are
hate me away
take back all I've borrowed
hate me because I betray
please hate away your sorrow
hate me for what I've taken and can't repay
despise my every sad tomorrow
hate me in ways that let you free from me
it's the only way I can ever give you peace
I have to stop the days I sadden you
I have to **** the way I make it true
that no matter what I promise
my actions won't prove a love for you
I've been without so much for so long
that I should appreciate all you have to give
I should've cherished your soft presence
in every day since, that I have lived
but I never put you above myself
I never helped or held you up so high
now the only way I affect you
is with a commitment that makes you cry
you always fully forgave me
for all the crimes that I'd commit
now it's you I have to protect
In asking your heart only for this split
hate me away
take back all I've stolen
hate me for the foul days
that could have shined and been golden
hate me for my every terrible display
despise me deeply, hate my emotions
hate me in ways that let you free from me
it's the only way
I
can ever give you peace
Dec 5, 2012
Dec 5, 2012 at 6:48 PM UTC
Chestnuts roasting by an open fire
Stories gather round to tell
I almost sat too close to it
And roasted mine as well
Away in a manger
No crib for a bed
All the nice hay
Smells of ***** instead
Have yourself a merry little Christmas
Make the yuletide gay
But if Santa's eyeing up your chimney
Send him on his way
I'm dreaming of a quiet Christmas
With every panic out of sight
May your days be merry and bright
And may all your Christmases be just right
Dec 23, 2012
Dec 23, 2012 at 10:17 AM UTC
The money I'm saving on Christmas this year
will be incredibly useful for buying more beer
I'm not buying presents for family and friends
But this festive season I will be making amends
I'll never shop early for presents to give
I swear on my mother, for as long as I live
For while looking for boxes and our Christmas tree
I found boxes of presents from seventy three
All wrapped up and labelled in a box all alone
Hidden by an old blanket that was haphazardly thrown
Beside it, more presents from around eighty four
And as I kept on searching I found many more
There were presents for Grandad, who is now pushing daisies
And a few for Aunt Marg, who we all know was crazy
Gifts for the children, who now have kids of their own
In fact almost all are for children who've grown
I found a few that were given from Santa himself
And a few for my husband on an old wooden shelf
All wrapped up and labelled and dusty as well
I'd febreeze them downstairs to get rid of the smell
I promise from now, I will write down what I hide
And I'll draw a small map to use as a guide
I can't wait now for Christmas to see what we've got
From all the Christmases past, and the gifts I forgot!
Nov 18, 2012
Nov 18, 2012 at 3:29 PM UTC
She is descended from strong women.
Bronze women. Stone matriarchs.
Pioneers. Immigrants. Fighters.
Hand in the earth, sun on the brow,
salt in the sweat, beautiful strong women.
Her ancestors rode ships to new horizons.
Forging destiny for their children's children
by riding waves to new lands.
Her grandparents tilled earth.
Beat back the scorching sun
and grew life in rows.
They sowed a future like seeds
for their children.
Her mother provided.
Giving hands full with
life wielding cast iron pots like
weapons. Fighting back
hunger and want.
She kept full bellies so her daughter
might have a full future.
She.
She has given her life to loving her family.
And has been lifelong devoted to that endeavor.
Never failing a step.
She has walked through foreign shores,
trailer parks, brand new hearts, and broken cycles.
She has cobbled together Christmases,
shattered hopes, family meals, lunch money, and hope.
She is tested.
She has walked the path of her ancestors.
She is a Pioneer.
A tiller.
A provider.
A fighter.
A warrior.
She is my mother.
And she will beat cancer.
Sep 25, 2015
Sep 25, 2015 at 12:28 AM UTC
It sits expectantly on the peg in the dim hallway
just above the miniature blackberry stained walking cane,
waiting to be pulled over that wonderful head
reigning-in errant silver, bushy brows framed.
In the pub in a cloud of smoke,
a pint of beer next to half a Guinness,
just up the road from a market stall
where it waited
A million Christmases ago.
Hide and seek,
bobbing along the top of the untrimmed hedge.
Coming or going – no difference
happiness wherever it goes.
Straining against the South Westerly
soaked in ocean rain
longs for the shoulder-carry from the beach and silly songs
sweat pouring, Friday fish and chips, tea in the ***
Radio 4, crosswords and roasts.
Nov 27, 2013
Nov 27, 2013 at 11:16 AM UTC
All those decorations from last season
on your door,
they won't help your fading memories
to last.
Let's admit that we're all ghosts in waiting.
Knock one back with me.
We can rattle our chains to Christmases past.
Tally up.
Count the sum.
See, I've got a clever face.
But I ain't no plastic monkey on your dashboard.
'Cuz I've done my share of sinning
and I've told my share of lies.
But this heart's built ********* tough like a Ford.
Come again
to the ball.
We can bring along our masks.
We can hide our pretty faces' ugly creases.
We can laugh. We can dance.
We can pretend we're still young.
But we can't deny our dents.
Not tonight.
No, I won't deny my dents--Not tonight.
Out the door,
night is cold.
Let the band begin again.
Doubt me now, but I am only getting warmed up.
Though you've done your share of dancing,
you're not really wanting out.
Just like me: you never like an empty cup.
Tally up.
Count the sum.
I might be deaf, blind and dumb.
I ain't like the ******* monkeys on your dashboard.
I'm just a ghost in ***** sheets
and I have made my share of beds
and I believe I'll ******* sleep fine tonight.
And you should try and sleep fine tonight.
Well, all those pretty lights, strung up
last season on your door,
they won't help your fading fortitude to last.
Let's confess that we're just ghosts in waiting.
One more dance with me.
We can haunt this town and recall Christmas past.
Sep 10, 2015
Sep 10, 2015 at 11:39 PM UTC
Hey honey what your drinking?
Here have some wine , here comes the whisky
Did I just taste ***
Im preety sure that was a white liquor shot
O man nice bottle opener
Lets have a beer
O man I love you guys
Whisky shots
Ill just have a glass of ***
STOPPPP
**** hits
O is that a joint?
Sleep ,
Sleep
2 hours later
Is that a
Black label !!! in the counter AHHH
Im a bad colombian
Dad is stillgoing
I feel like throwing up
Colombian Christmases
Morning hangovers
Wake and bake joints
Apr 16, 2013
Apr 16, 2013 at 12:05 AM UTC
Jumps back on the ketamine and the *******
and stands in alleyways and lanes
and forgets why the stars sit and the moon stands;
who fights demons with hairdryers and backward hats.
And it’s okay to look like your Dad you never knew,
in glances through the wood would only a few see the resemblance,
but similar hair won’t make up for lost Christmases
and days away at rain safari parks.
You’ll have to leave the fox hole through the brambles
at some point in the future,
so get scratched now and bleed a little sigh
of relief,
one that you’ve broken the tie and loosened the knot
and show us all that you’re out of your cot.
Aug 28, 2013
Aug 28, 2013 at 12:36 PM UTC
Her voice when she whispers
Brings me back to childhood
Christmases, when shaking a
Present revealed the gut-tingling
Sound of LEGO inside.
May 6, 2015
May 6, 2015 at 8:25 AM UTC
I have some good memories of you
From when I was younger.
I remember the times
You'd bring me fishing,
You taught me how to cast.
I'd always hoped to catch
A fish as big as a shark.
I remember how you'd
Always make me laugh.
Especially when you'd start
Laughing really hard because
Your laugh is contagious.
I remember being called
"Daddy's little girl" because
I'd always wanna be with you.
And I remember wanting to go to
The bar with you when you went.
The bar,
Where you'd go to drink
And occasionally smoke cigarettes with friends.
I didn't understand it back then.
But now,
I have new memories of you.
I remember the times where
I was terrified to die
While you were behind the wheel.
When you accelerated faster on the highway,
I'd laugh in fear as I held in the tears
And prayed to God to get home safe.
Then you'd swerve.
Sometimes purposely for fun,
Sometimes just because you're drunk.
I remember the time
You fell backwards onto the floor
Because you were so drunk
That you couldn't even keep your balance.
You could've fallen down the stairs
Which was just in the other direction.
I could've lost you that day.
I remember the time you
Smoked **** inside a friends car outside the bar
During my confirmation party last year.
I remember those two Christmases
And those two birthdays that
You ruined for me two years in a row.
I remember the time when
You blurted out to my godfather that
I had cut and starved myself as if it were a news story.
Did you ever stop and think that
Maybe you're part of the reason why I did it?
I remember the time
You grabbed a trash bag and
Started to put all your clothes in it
While threatening to leave.
But It's like you're never there anyways
So what's the difference?
Then last night you said something to me
That tore my heart into pieces as if it were paper.
You were mad at Mom for something
That was most likely your fault.
You said,
“I'm gonna save up all my money
And to hell with her!”
Then I did the same thing as always.
Go into my room.
Close the door and lock it.
Turn up the music.
And cry.
Sometimes I’d wish I was a child again
Just so I wouldn't be able to understand,
So it wouldn't hurt as bad.
You know,
You said you'd die at 40 but look, you're 41.
So maybe that's God giving you a chance to change.
But God has given you too many chances,
I have given you too many chances,
We have all given you way too many chances.
A part of me wants you to know that I wrote this
So you could maybe realise how much it hurts.
But the other part of me knows that
You'll just look away and laugh
Like it doesn't mean anything.
Just like you always do.
-Cynthia Medeiros
Apr 28, 2017
Apr 28, 2017 at 7:15 AM UTC
I've had trouble wrapping Christmas gifts;
it has always been your job to do this ***** work.
I work to get the Christmas bonus,
we do the shopping,
you do the wrapping.
Plain as day.
But you left me, and I had to do all the work by myself. And so
I made a list of steps in the new skill I have mastered:
*1. Unroll the gift wrapper. Spread it. Cover all bases. Never adore the design and adornments; it will be ripped anyway.
2. Put the gift in the middle of the paper. Estimate how much paper are you willing to save or spend and waste.
3. Tape the ends. Put tape wherever. Don't try to hide the tapes. Secrets are meant to be revealed anyway. TIP: The more you put tape, the uglier your gift wrap will be. You think tapes will mend loose ends but it will simply destroy the aesthetic value of your gift.
4. Fold and tape. Tape and fold. Design it however you like. Origami the **** out of it. It will be destroyed anyway.
5. Put the gift card. Write with your best handwriting. With a smile swathed on your face. Add a dash of artificiality. No matter what you put here, this will not merit anything; It will not be read anyway.*
Four Christmases you have been wrapping those gifts. Now that I have
wrapped some this year, I'm pretty sure why you've left. Plain as day.
PS Wait for the gift I am sending you over. I wrapped it just for you.
Dec 24, 2015
Dec 24, 2015 at 10:03 AM UTC
Sitting in the bath once again, small blue pad in hand, bit of plastic as support, I write this poem. Albert Cat demands a bit of attention and pad slides into the water. I grab a bit of toilet paper to blot it. That makes it worse. So, blurred and vague, I reconstruct it, using magnifying glasses (2!) while watching the evening news. Here it is:
I Like Facebook
I like Facebook. I don’t know exactly why.
I like looking at the pictures,
Friends I’d never meet another way.
I like friendly messages,
Passages of verse I’d never read
If not for Facebook’s lead.
I like Likes and Comments kind,
Find in comments rich expressions.
Possibly I’m one of few - or few new millions.
I’m inspired when tired, fired up.
Even when I’ve written ‘crap’
No one’s there to trap me.
Some reviewer always sees my views,
Understands.
Someone always sends
Me praise; ends with a Like.
I’ve never had a spikey word;
Cordiality is all I’ve ever read or heard.
Commonality forever somewhere, there
Where someone wants to start a group.
Always somebody to whoop de whoop:
Somewhere folk who populate;
A troupe with common passions.
Then there are the monthly Happys:
Happy Birthdays, Christmases and Easters…
Never had one word rescinded.
Reminded gently daily:
Classmates, playmates
I’d forgotten, dovetailed,
Blazoned on the psyche;
Friends and places,
And of course, the faces -
It is Facebook, after all; the key, the glee,
A source of history.
As for weaknesses I’ve read about –
Never think to route them out,
Going ‘bout my business,
Focused on creativeness,
The lofty and the small.
I like Facebook.
Happy Facebook to you all!
I Like Facebook 3.31.2018 Our Times, Our Culture II; Arlene Corwin
Mar 31, 2018
Mar 31, 2018 at 4:01 PM UTC
I'm dreaming of a green Christmas
Just like the ones I used to know
Where the kush plants glisten,
and reggae bawts listen
To smell, burning kush all day
I'm dreaming of a green Christmas
With every ***** blunt I roll
May your days be reggae and kleen
And may all your Christmases be green
Dec 11, 2014
Dec 11, 2014 at 9:15 AM UTC
ohh where to start… i know, You sir are an *******
You were there then you weren't
leaving when i needed you most
making me grow up so fast,
at a young age, you taught me what disappointment was when you would call saying you would visit in a half hour and never showed up…
when you chose yourself over me..
you next bottle of beer over me…
HOW WORTHLESS AM I?
still I give you a second chance and invite you to one of the most important days of my life…
you showed up late
so late you missed my performance…
got hauled out of the place by the cops because you were so drunk you fell on one of them
HOW WORTHLESS AM I?
you can't even put the bottle down for one day
birthdays, Christmases, my first date, my first boyfriend, my first kiss, the week i spent crying over that guy.. with hair or something
Dances, partys.
I bet you can't tell me my best friends name?
any of my friends?
MY favorite color?
That boy I likes name?
MY AGE?
you will miss my graduation….
My brother walking me down the aisle at my wedding
you're grandkids
all because you are to selfish to se what it does to me, what it will do to them.
DOES IT MEAN THAT MUCH TO YOU?
AM I THAT WORTHLESS?
you already did this to one kid
left him 16 years ago without another thought
I talk to him sometimes, he tells me he wishes you had stuck around longer like you did with me.
I tell him I wish you had just left…
i wouldn't have had to hope
I wouldn't have had to wait
I wouldn't have had to grow up
I wouldn't have had to cry
I wouldn't have had you
I would have had the gift of not knowing what I'm not missing out on
so yes YOU ARE THAT WORTHLESS to me
Nov 18, 2013
Nov 18, 2013 at 7:50 AM UTC