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No Name Poet Feb 2015
How
Can     Will
You              You
Break                   Fix
Me         ­                     Me
When                 When
You          You
Fixed   Broke
Me              Me
In                        In
The                          The
First                   First
Place         Place
Darling.
Poetoftheway Oct 2018
how do you know (when a broken human can be fixed)


https://hellopoetry.com/poem/2644586/how-do-you-know-when-a-human-is-too-broken/

supermarket checkout line, so lazy broken down dressed,
I’m probably arrestible for disturbing the peace,
my haired piled, and held together by a broken clip,
makeup at home in
a drawer labeled ‘why bother’
my t shirt, don’t please look too closely,
yesterday’s coffee spillage outline
only mostly gone,
and the skinny jeans that felt inappropriate
ten pounds ago,
now looking semi-completely ridiculous

is this a tv show?
wallet, a twenty and a single,
who knew a pound of ground blue mountain
cost the better part of the the twenty
in that case no need for a gallon of milk
and *** a box of chocolate frosted donuts
silently slid far far away,
evidence of a guilty plea of irresponsibility resignation

short $2.42 (cut up the credit cards)
and no convenient pit to fall into
when the teenager cashier snickers,
when a sam elliot voice says here ya are,
stammering a no, a thank you, and thinking getaway direction

truck safely, made it,
knock on the window
sam elliot soundalike is a lookalike as well
standing outside with my wallet in hand,
two heads taller than my ex-petite figurine

more stammering ******* could I look any stupider

but inside a piece of brown shopping bag torn
with ten whole digits
I’ve never seen prior to this disaster
saying call when you want to return my $2.42

turns out he got, no, he is glue and paste,
an eraser man for fine lines and sad times,
and a lasso to keep me held together,
a pocket red handkerchief hanging half out
of his back pocket, never without, calls it his tear catcher

pulled out that too tight blues-blouse
from back of my closet
that still complements my complexion,
wear it ever time that day rolls around

just dumb luck ain’t much of an answer
so I’ll rephrase, dumb luck is in the everything
cause his number was 917-242-2424
and he is a gambler in matters of the heart

bust his ***** when he says he’s a lucky man,
reply he ain’t got no luck at all
compared to me on that daft day

and every daft day thereafter
I glue his lips shut to mine, no escaping,
and paste a new $2.42
into his wallet
when he is sleeping mine,
no erasing our lines,
just redrawing them deeper and finer,
just making sure my
dumb luck is working overtime
Thomas C Sep 15
Like a droplet in a river we travel. No clue of direction.
Yet we ever flow through the path carved out of us by an entity unknown.
Slowly we reach, yet unaware of it, to our destination.
Then we fall, by the millions unto the next flow of life.
Shofi Ahmed Apr 2017
Just a dew drop, let alone the sea,
and a handful of earth, not the Planet Ge.
Not a shade of blue, save the rose for bee
Purely a clear drop didn’t spill in the core,
because the whole sphere feels the pinch.

Singing chorus rains down, bouncing back
to earth the only open-through planet.
No black hole is as deep as the sun jumps,
dives in the dew on every flower they wet.
Every bird in the trees sings and tweets,
yet one is stone quiet, shouldn’t even hiss.
Shh! shh, the sleeping beauty is sleeping!

Cut above the rest, the unique earth
brimming with the infinite finishing line
by design pans out to the transcended pi.
Pure spring, the waterfront by the Moon,
untouched, unspoiled is her swimming pool.

How she goes by, wetting her ****** toe
Only to bubble high up the transcended circle
If only the sun could rise high in that pole,
for the rest of species could sneak a peek.
She’s there with the capstone of the pyramid!

Shots beyond the fixed circle, netting the eyeballs.
The stars, the Moon on the move for pure freedom.
The thrilled earth did come out, smelling of roses
Off the golden cut pi-decimal-abyss digital spring.
With a handful of earth and a drop of water dew
This is a pure mirroring thanks to the original, you!

At the end of the string apt you lovely took her by hand
and she took it in emptying her heart and soul.
Earth is now too thin on stock, she is no more
Just a shadow, a 360-degree hollow flute!
Oh light at the end of the tunnel shine and show
Play in like in the Night of Ascension once more!
This is a poem from my book Zero and One available on Amazon.
Savonte Jan 2018
Cracked eyeshadow palettes
Broken lipsticks
She tries to put them back together
So that she can put herself together
Because not being put together
Is unacceptable in our shallow
world.
Death does not have a fixed date with you,
So don't wait to grow old.
1/2/2019.
Crystal Feb 2018
Why is it that he gets to be happy?
He gets to smile and be in love.
While I drown in the heartbreak  he left me in.
While I try to numb the pain with a few drinks a day.
Even though I've got everything.
I feel nothing.
Empty and I want to know why.
Lost and I want to be found.
Broken and I dont need to be fixed
Sad and I have no true reason to be
Gone and  no one has noticed.
September Roses May 2018
We are tied together by our stories, our history
Tales woven through our ancestry, when our parents talk of their younger days,
When their life was ahead of them,
the future was anything and everything,
they speak of their old friends with ache in their soul,
Of times when their hearts were filled with fire and passion,
running through fields growing memories  planted by the world around them
When they could sprint the wind in their hair,
adventure ahead,
hope in their heart.
They speak of the days behind with woe
Because essentially just their ideas of the future as a young mind, were more enticing than reality.
As dreams failed and hope faded
As their minds wear
and their treasured stories that made them who they are fog over
As threads begin to wear
As tales they once yelled to the world with pride fray at the ends
Your whole world slipping away as the thread unwinds
But they get the joy of passing down the tapestry to their pride and joy,
to the life they made,
Every moment we live with ease of no appreciation for every experience every laugh
Moments we take for granted
Moments we will pine for when they run out
Moments the elderly urge us with fire to cherish
Moments we'll wish we listened about
There is a vast tapestry of memories behind you and infinite thread panning out in front of you, connecting to other tapestries,
visiting at friends,
at enemies,
joining with soul-mates future.
Some cut away,
some ripped from the tapestries too soon before they could weave their own.
A loose thread cannot be fixed once more are made,
and the patterns will never be what you want them to be, savour each stitch
Take time on every thread
You don't want to be sitting there 50 years old thinking about the life you wasted
About the memories faded,
About how every slipping memory's never like the moment you made it.
Don't be sitting 90 filled with regret
Filled with hatred for every opportunity you left
Screaming into the void about how much you hate what your life become.
because they say time flys when your having fun truth is time only flies when you're young.
Here we go baby
It's coming 'round
I'm reaching for the stars
I'm stepping out of town

I used to be as worthless
As **** on a bull
I've turned that around
Now I'm nobody's fool

You may have a choke hold
I'm going to knee you in the *****
You'll relinquish that choke hold
Before the darkness falls

We're on the threshold
Of a whole new deal
It's called turning the thumbscrews
Let's see how you feel

If the revolution is a shot in the dark
I'm hear to tell you it won't be a walk in the park
If you are going to be stupid you'd better be tough
The game is fixed and I've had enough
Jordan Rowan Dec 2015
I step in the morning with horizon-fixed eyes
Underneath the December rain
I'm feeling good and no one knew I would
Because they only focus on pain

They frown and drown under the weight of it all
Yet they don't understand
I'm fine, just fine, and if I'm not, I'll call
Life is but a grain of sand

Somedays are perfect but no week can be
Even moments have ups-and-downs
Some let small grow big and tall, but me?
Only death will bring me frowns
my fingers are leaden
my hands are sore
i never would have thought before
that you'd bring me so low
that there'd be no room to grow

my nails have been chewed to stubs
my stomach sinks to my feet
i finally admit defeat
you broke my heart
i wish I can go back to the start
and not press send or call you back
prevent each and every panic attack

my brain tells me no
and my heart aches for you
but you never believed it would be us two
you chose another
caused cracks to form under my skin
i never should have let you in

i crumpled like paper
my skin white as snow
now i know i was right to let you go
i never held on
i just released
you've left some pages of my life creased

it burned to breathe
my lungs were on fire
you dug my heart out with dull wire
it took so long to beat again
i wondered if i could take this pain
so all i could do was try to break the chains

things have begun to change
another came along
i have a new tune to my song
why are these things always so scary?
it means i'll never stop being wary
time for me to be brave

he has to pick up my broken shards
scattered here and there
i wasn't sure if he would care
once things went wrong
it seems that we belong
i wouldn't have read that in the cards

i'm only scared he cuts himself
trying to fix me
and he no longer will want the key
that stops me pulling back
that keeps me on track
because i am not worth it
This was written when I was closest to my lowest of lows and I edited it when things got better. I edited it again as things grew worse, but they've finally begun to level out. Sad thing is, some insecurities apparently never die...
Life,
is how people get broken
and love,
how people get fixed.
Alyssa Underwood Jul 2017
The joyful heart is the buoyant heart—
empowered to rise above its circumstances,
unweighted, unburdened, unbound,
tied only to that which would lift it higher,
untethered from anything which would
pull it down, pull it under or suffocate it.

It's the free heart, quiet and at rest
yet jubilant and uncontained,
the celebrating heart, the praising heart,
the thankful heart, the heart set on pilgrimage,
bent on adventure, journey and romance.

All the while it's a waiting heart
because it's a yielded, led heart—
a heart which doesn't run ahead of the LORD
but willingly, quickly to the LORD—
a heart that though eagerly anticipating each
twisting turn, next horizon and changing path
keeps its eyes fixed not on the scenery
but forever on the Shepherd
because it's a heart persuaded
that He alone is the Great Reward
for which it has always been looking.

True joy is only ours when we find an endless
source of satisfaction, and of these I know only One!
The secret to all joy is to crave Him above all else.
The joyful heart is the one addicted fully to Him,
desperate for Him to the expense of all else,
willing to sacrifice everything to have that craving satisfied.

Joy and idols, I have learned,
do not easily reside together in the same heart.
So if I find that joy is chased away
the most likely culprits are my own desires.
What am I wanting more than Jesus?
For if intimacy with Him is the supreme goal of my life
then nothing can arise which I'm not enabled to bear with joy.
There is, I suppose, nothing so reliable as suffering and loss
to expose all of the hidden idols within me.

It's surely those who have suffered the greatest
and most frequent losses for Christ who are also
most capable of knowing the deepest and most abiding joy.
For it's when we've been stripped bare of everything else
that we begin to know for certain that our joy is based
not on the temporary blessings of our circumstances
but only on the presence of the Eternal Blesser Himself.

Sometimes He offers to us all that is in His right hand,
but for any with eyes truly opened to see
the most precious of times may be those
when He offers to us only the intimacy of His right hand.

Rivers of sadness can open up
into wide gulfs of endless delight and
are often the very courses needed to carry us there.
When all is lost, we find to our amazement
that, even so, we still have ALL
and no one can rob us of it.
When He takes everything from us
He proves Himself to be EVERYTHING to us.
~~~

"For to me, to live is Christ and to die is gain."
~ Philippians 1:21

"I want you to know how hard I am contending
for you...and for all who have not met me personally.
My goal is that they may be encouraged in heart
and united in love, so that they may have the full riches
of complete understanding, in order that they may know
the mystery of God, namely, Christ, in whom are hidden
all the treasures of wisdom and knowledge."
~ Colossians 2:1-3

"I say to the LORD, 'You are my Lord;
    apart from You I have no good thing.'...
Those who run after other gods will suffer more and more...
    LORD, You alone are my portion and my cup;
    You make my lot secure...
I will praise the LORD, who counsels me;
    even at night my heart instructs me.
I keep my eyes always on the LORD.
    With Him at my right hand, I will not be shaken.
Therefore my heart is glad and my tongue rejoices;
    my body also will rest secure...
You make known to me the path of life;
    You will fill me with joy in Your presence,
    with eternal pleasures at Your right hand."
~ Psalm 16:2,4a-5,7-9,11

"Though the fig tree does not bud
    and there are no grapes on the vines,
though the olive crop fails
    and the fields produce no food,
though there are no sheep in the pen
    and no cattle in the stalls,
yet I will rejoice in the LORD,
    I will be joyful in God my Savior.
The Sovereign LORD is my strength;
    He makes my feet like the feet of a deer,
    He enables me to tread on the heights."
~ Habakkuk 3:17-19

"How lovely is Your dwelling place,
     O LORD Almighty!
My soul yearns, even faints,
    for the courts of the LORD;
my heart and my flesh cry out
    for the living God.
Even the sparrow has found a home,
    and the swallow a nest for herself,
    where she may have her young—
a place near Your altar,
     O LORD Almighty, my King and my God.
Blessed are those who dwell in Your house;
    they are ever praising You.
Blessed are those whose strength is in You,
    whose hearts are set on pilgrimage.
As they pass through the Valley of Baca,
    they make it a place of springs;
    the autumn rains also cover it with pools.
They go from strength to strength,
    till each appears before God in Zion."
~ Psalm 84:1-7

~~~
CK Baker Jan 2017
In time you’ll recover and absolve
push those scorned impressions aside
hammer down the jaded edges
and sing
that delightful commoners song
the one you sang so well
in what seems a lifetime ago

You really had it you know
that fiery disposition and nimble cunning
those butter chords and derelict style
we could see it -- we could all see it
it was all it took to turn the evening tide
(and rile that buck fever)
heads bashing
tongues lambasting
middle fingers high
and raising Cain on those may fly statesmen

There were no rules
when it came to your survival
no textbook rally or common bond
no structured songbird or bravado stage
you either made it, or laid it
“life by the *****” Mr. Poppy would say
a kaleidoscope of dreams
with rich colored imagery
hardened artisan seams
in a carefully woven motif

But something got lost in the needle point
something sinister and distorted took hold
the quirks and street genius
that were your lifeline
gave way to grunts
and squeals
and chilling night crawlers
the colors faded quickly
to a cold confining grey

There was no grace in the new world
no retribution or switch back
no salvation or accorded finale
only edged platforms of blackened steel
that kept you cased
in a silent vanquished cell
shivering cold with fear
night without day
all in the shadow of death

But time heals all
and the polish sneakers
and open sores are long gone
(though the roman nose and shallow cleft remain)
indeed the falconer beat the widow maker
this go around
and I’m hopeful it won’t happen again
and if it does you’ll see me
standing hand on heart
with that old verse in hand:

he ain’t tainted
or silly,
and most certainly
not forgotten…
he ain’t loony
or fixed,
or a product of his self-doing…
he’s just a straight shootin’ guy,
who had the most of it
figured out
Mark Thompson Nov 2014
Oil paints...what a ******
    My mistake
A spill on canvas
          I wipe and wipe to fix the "inspiration"
Before I know my eyes are fixed and fixed on...nothing

The painting's gone, my over thought of simple things
Has stormed again and taken from me
      That that I saw, and saw as a need

A force so convincing
Has broken,
shock! and gone a splintering

  And now
In wide eyed amazement
I stare at beauty staring back at me
From a chance meant
  To be
A happy accident

A smile

Relief
Poetoftheway Aug 2018
how do you know when (a human is too broken?)



<•>

human too broken?

like the light bulb, removal from its fixture, a simple shaking revelation of the tinkling filament spent, something that cannot be repaired, the only option is replacement and that makes
you cry

the empty box of oatmeal raisin cookies, you find secret’d,
hid by you, not to be found by you
at the bottom of the kitchen garbage,
but box betrayal, by the chartreuse tipped box lid sided
peeking upwards, asking, silencing screaming,
what did I do to deserve
this degrading

like the blouse now too tight that it brings stares as the buttons strain, unwelcome attention unintended,
you know it but still pretend not to see,
for you both once loved that silky guise that so
heightened the high tender, the match of your pink rose skin letting, no! making
your eyes glisten, like broken filament glass, on the sidewalk,
recalling the pleasured admiration,
rain remembered from the
prior priority of a life consisting of only
perfect gifts

so mean revert to the poseur question; this is how...

remove the human from a fixed place, whimpering-threatened,
you may hear clear the crackle cackling  of the innard shards against the misperception of a body intact,
even if you do,
no repair service you want,  can be found, see it nowhere,
is it even
anywhere advertised?

the body presumed intact is secret’d under a tactile coverlet,
holey scupperrd holy cuttered
so that the cells and bicuspids, the threads
no longer function in a tandem,
you keep it in the closet closed,
in the back, deep hid, where,
when it screams why,
it can be safe ignored,
because  ‘betrayed’ is no longer a word,
in your globe's dictionary,
the parental controls activated by you to
save your own inner child’s unconstrained confusion,
it has been removed


so the broken glass, the clothes you dressed each other,
if not weep-well,
well enough hid,
the fit is off,
the fit is off,
the coverlet ripped so bad and neither cares
an unexpected poem, unplanned, needing work
aug 4-5
Anyone Nov 2018
She found my scars in the back room
Of some party at some house.
Her tears wet the scabs.
Her fear locked her arms around me.
She opened my ribs
And held my heart in her hands.
She nursed it to health, cursed the disease,
Thawed the freeze of love.

Relapse; My knees snapped,
Staggered and fell back.
But she listened whilst my arms glistened.
My Nightingale helped the scars go pale.
Her deep blue eyes held my flaws,
Until they went a duller hue.
Her firm embrace didn't withdraw
Until my jumper was her only view.
Our hands touched, not enough,
Lips lust, needed more. We ******.

The truth was, sympathy wasn't love.
A job done didn't mean 'the One'.
The fantasy we lived hit her like a ton
Of bedsheets and lies. She tried.
So she told me the facts,
She'd held me in tact. And now that I could
Walk, she thought it best we shouldn't talk.
It was abrupt, all the pain would erupt.
The knife leered, my mind jeered
But her lamp, she said,
Would never leave my bed.
So it shone instead, a flame of gold.

It was upsetting, our sun setting,
Yet now I don't cut.
I can make steps on my own.
I see colour in the sky.
To her I owe my wasted time.
Still, every night, I sit by the light,
And pray. Pray for just one more
Sunrise.
William Keckler Oct 2014
Must go. Cannot explain.
The sadness is on the table.
I left you as much as half
of everything I own.
Maybe more.
Spend it how you like.
I know you will anyway.
This is no joke.
The marriage painting is fixed.
The key is under
your lover's pillow.
Tell the cat
Vive La France for me.
However this Stag Tradition breathes thus far
Which works in all cases of Merriment
That Ring is no Joke; And Youth points a Star
To where your Heart will land in Sentiment
He only Encourages, Dreams and Promotes
As no Singer sang such Octave before
Mark him Stranger; Not a Contest he connotes
To challenge what had been Promised once more
Such tell, that Woolen Strings are Postulate,
A Theory already penned into Law
That Fixed Hearts are veined in Mutual Rebate
And Cupid signs both your names into Straw.
Go to Her. She has sung Poems better Written
This Bard resigns; Knowing he was Beaten.
#tomdaleytv #tomdaley1994
Ken Pepiton Oct 2018
Drunk, we staggered home.

Aware of having been
some
other where
a while

That woman, she could answer

any question rebbi axt,
Ohhhhmyyy

she laugh and say, Dude, I got the Intent-net,
in my hand

That's more than a list of numbers, this
accounting idle words going on, on going, as fast as

lightning, at the scale, of, say

cat-ions ifiying an-ions
at random,
seen systematical, from a distance
zoom out
at the scale, of, say
Great Deep Field.

Center you, I'm no matter.

synchro
now

zoom out
Use that steam program
Universe Sandbox,
you gotta see that to imagine this, right,

and next is what you keep saying is unbelievable,
but its not.

Good things come to them
to whom
good makes more sense.

Earth from the moon POV

Confusion flux, spurtual,  caused by the solar flare of all solar flares,
one side

Whooshing the Ice left from Patton's flood
into steam, the stuff, not the app,

which swooshhhesssssssssss smack
into the freezing repurcussions
from the daark side…

The Noah event, that was bad,
This one, the last one, this just previous one,

was spiritual. Magnitudes incomparable
(save in parable and example, exemplar gratis,
says the bodiless being, with a roll of  my wrist and a bow)

At that very time on the side away from the flare,
the daark side of the planet, this one…

a Donald Patton nitrogen snow ball
that nearly breached Roche's limit,

too not nearly enough,
dis -integration
The atmosphere freezes
to the quark level, snap,

the cold
explosive
forward momentum
booms a nitrogen bubble now
minusminusminus
solid nitrogen
melting

any heat locked in flare fired steam,
what was once the water
that washed away the gods and locked their cities
of ivory under the ice

on the sunny side,
where now, then,

a solar flare like legends build empires upon
has passed, fires rage

there were survivors who lived to tell

and old stories never die. Old story tellers do,

Only miners survived, gold digger mostly,
few alchemists who knew the mystery in mercury,
Lost was all knowing but to a very few,
who truth be told had been the owner's
well kept servants, ministers of this and that
they perished with all the fires touched

we diggers, we only marvel

How bits of time, exact as ours, can be seen happening
all in bubble of Mercury. Cooked out red rock like these.

"Blood o' the gods of old, swat I'astold."

Messages from the gods, grandma, said, "Mercury calls for gold, gold listens, when fire's hottern fire can be,
unless
the breath of men blow on the coals", we all said that last part and blew out the light. G'night


but a story told a wee bit here a qubit there
here a little, there a little
line upon line,
precept upon precept,

'cept no body knows what I know about cept,

capere, a story starts, a provisioning tale. Wait.

it means grip. like a tool. rock breaks nut.

Paper covers rock, but scissors are so far in the future
that now, my time, my mind wanders after whys

this authoritative telling of the story, in it,
none know the terminal tale.

As in times past, there were survivors who lived to tell

and old stories never die. Old story tellers do,

Tho' here's a clue.
Meek's not bad,
stupid, for no reason, is.

Living long for the sake of a song heard once,
in dream luring me on, promising right now, I'll

know what it's like to see, oh

POV I made this clear some time ago,
time is less predictable than any imagined, before 2018
when, you know…

Even those tales old drunk Hesiod sold
in the Hittite tavern at Delphi,

Chronos thought wrong in those,
he ruled but for the merest gleam o'

Time, then a bubble gen erated by the thought of
opposition to transition,
nothing to something,
pushing /pushing back
stretch/snap/spark
that takes power, pulsing power, throbbing power

push/stretch
glow/snap
you know, imagine, glowing - cheat, think 2018 CG
glow/snap
Planc time,
each time the bubble pushes back
a ripple
imagine a clock, later, if you believe then, you must.

Now, see the bubble of all men have imagined,
since the time when such a bubble was only evil,
continually.

It went viral.
Noah we know for sure, almost, survived, ? Cushites kept records. In Africa.
Akkad kept record, too.
Some Hopi survived somehow and they have a tale.

They say they know the story is ten thousand years old,
I've been to a crossroads
on their journey,
stories
tell of it, still, today.

Holy means marked for good reason.
Marked with clues, not riddles, maps

Sacred means secret means hidden away for use,
not common, every day, quotidian use, right use.

Time, the opposing force, is precious to us all.
In time, we do all we can and die,

in ever, we expand, in no time at all. I imagine.

You fill it. Now, Your expandable mind's time,

time pushes from the outside,
wisdom pushes from the inside,

And so it goes, life goes on and music grows on ya,

Amusing how they do that, teeny muses dancing
shiva on the tip of my tongue,

singings songs in tongues I've never known
if they
are words on tongues
or sounds on tongues,

notes,

Baysian Binary Cross Validation
still ends with some people thinkin'
"it is finished" left them with a ton o'weight,
that's wrong, insist resistance.

Some, heavy duty, leaders of lambs, they claim
power in their mouths, spoken from fixed hearts,

but fixed upon, is truly the song,
said, words are only
little bits of whole sym ulacrum of re-ify-ing

where broken things re-pair, and life goes on…

"fixed, my heart is fixed",
no, your heart is machine of the most magnificent design, perfected,
a time at a time.
Flexing, pacing time itself, faster slower,

try some time
alone
be still, pond still

I know the story broke,
I could not hold it.

In the night, bitter cold
Frozen fragile...

There are pieces scattered every

where, everywhere
there is time, there is at least, a point

a story may stand upon and ask an angel
to dance.
Dance, give it some flare, what do we care?

Nobody's watching, but that fly.
This is read, by me at http://anchor.fm/ken-pepiton
Life is good at my house, thankyou. A reader is needed more than words can tell. My posts are a book now, few stand solidly on their own. Thank you if you spend your time perusing them please tell me where I muddy the flow, or break the story.
Jordan Rowan Jan 2016
Electric dreams of crying electric sheep
Sweep through my mind full of sleep
Dance across the diamond sky
And wave as your silhouette goes by

Crying crystal eyes fixed upon the sun
With no thoughts of many but just one
The one who sings in hazy blue bars
Illuminated like the northernmost stars

Melodies warm the air and the heart
Drift past the door and into the dark
Deep in the mystery of human life
Rests the emotion tied to one night

Calm and frail under sapphire skies
Doubt and worry in worn-out eyes
Never known yet unignored
Never had but longed for
When I was four my brother use to catch me snakes, and my sister would buy me donuts, my dad would take me fishing, and my mom would sing to me.

When I was five, my brother could only call me to say he missed me, my sister would write me letters, my dad would drink until the wee hours of the morning,
And my mom was just gone.

I remember sitting in the court house wondering what was happening

“He can have her”

And that was the last time my family was together.

My dad raised me on his own.
A single alcoholic father, raising a little girl
Was not something people were use too.

We lived in a small town, and so they would whisper about the mother who left me behind, and the father that was always drunk.

But even at 5 years old I didn’t mind being alone. My father loved me with all he had, I knew that in my bones.

So the years passed, just the two of us, in a house with empty bedrooms but not empty hearts. I became accustomed to taking care of my fathers hangovers, and walked myself to school, and every Mother’s Day I made my dad a card and picked my neighbors flowers to put in a vase. Though I wondered where my mother was, and why my siblings lived somewhere else, I never once wished my life where different. It was all I knew.
I learned to catch my own snakes, and my dad would buy me donuts, and take me fishing, and sing for me.

From time to time I’d cry silently in my bedroom, wondering why they left. But as I got older I understood that not every family is meant to stay together, that not everyone who has kids is ready to raise them, and that people can fall out of love.

These were all hard lessons, and I learned them early on, but I wouldn’t change a thing, it made me who I am.

My father did finally get sober, and my mother came back into my life, my brother had children, they hang off my arms when I visit, my sister calls me every week, I even have a new brother who looks up to me.

The three paper routes I had as a kid to help my father pay the bills taught me the importance of hard work, the long nights my dad partied taught me to appreciate a good nights sleep, and my family’s separation taught me to cherish what you have.

Nothing’s promised, anything can be taken, so live your life without regrets.
And don’t forget to tell your dad you love them, tell your mother your forgive her, and hug your siblings as often as you can.
Dimitri Ali Sep 2018
Look in the mirror and tell me what you see,
Is your smile weird, maybe its the shape of your face, what about your teeth?
Do some seem out of place?
You're no different from me, I look in the mirror all the time,
Even when I don't need to or when its not wort it.
What do I see ? I see the same as you, all things that I deem to make me less than perfect.
You see we're unhappy with ourselves,
Things we've been taught can be fixed with a product on a shelf,
Somewhere in an isle that feeds off our desire to look flawless.
Yet all we do is buy more and learn to love ourselves less.
What is self love ?
Do you even know where to start?
I don't but I believe that with all love it comes from the heart.
You see we compliment people who talk theirselves down,
But we can't compliment ourselves yet sometimes we give it all to erase a frown.
We're not incapable of loving, you an me.
We're just too blind to see, that we deserve our love too, to be as happy as can be.
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