you know
you know me best
you've passed the test
you've handled the mood swings and the constant sensitivity.
you've handled my family that even i can't.
when times get tough, you hold my hand
you whisper "i've got you"
and that's all i need.
you.
Poems on the topic: family
Poems on the topic “family” on Poets.by.
endless days.
Days on end,
sitting in a room full of people.
Not indulging in anyone but myself.
Why would i?
No one here knows me or cares to try.
endless days.
"I won't forget"
I say with my head flooded with thoughts.
thoughts of not being enough,
not having enough material items,
and not giving enough.
though i try to be the best version of myself, the truth is i'm a replica of my parents.
Another day.
Living.
Not for myself.
And not as myself.
Parents
When you cheat on a test
or steal a little money
When you joke about others
and think it's quite funny
"Your parents didn't raise you properly."
When you grow up in the future
and maybe rob a bank
or vandalize a famous landmark
with graffiti on your hands
"Your parents didn't raise you properly."
What does that have to do with them?
Maybe they talked to me
maybe they shouted at me
Maybe they led by example
or just simply left me
What effect does that have?
i hate
I hate that I have diabetes
I hate that I have anger
I hate that I have medical problems
I hate that my family teams up on me
I hate that my mom doesn't help me
I hate that noone doesnt help me
closer
We used to be close,
We did,
Like two peas in a pod,
They said,
It was not me who ended it,
Nor you,
It was time,
And space,
Space apart,
Or the fact that space,
In fact,
Had pushed us apart,
The hands of the clock,
Gripping our very souls,
Pulling them apart,
Dragging you away,
The Keepin of Records
i felt the morning flush of midnite rain
the way august was in 56 or 7 when i returned
from 4-h camp at alpine wyoming to find
a houseful of our relatives for your funeral
a hopeless congregation of a family
gone bad at the root of charlie rob
you spoke of navajo trading post in Arizona
where we visited your leathery face petrified
wood of curious trinkets made of silver and
turquoise by the indians in your home after the war
you were a licensed vender of goods for
the indians and paid your special fees as i
also pay my special fees for registrin and
withdrawin and registrin at idaho state
you are registerd these few years at mt mccaleb
cemetry amongst the weeds and lilacs and no large
∆cold
There was a story of a little boy
His mother was never around
Had to raise himself, had to learn himself
No good, all bad.
He was strong but weak
Hurt and cold he never let anyone close.
He was used to being alone
But the day his mom tried, horribly,
to give him what he longed for
He turned around and walked away
To which his mom thought 'where did I go wrong'
Completely oblivious and close minded
He grew up to give his kids what he never had
And they gave him what he always wanted
love, hope, but most importantly a family.
Why, Why, Why?!
Why?
Why do I live every day in fear
Why do I fear love
Why do I fear loving someone
Why do I fear getting attached to people
Why do I fear life and not death
I know why
I am numb and afraid of hurting someone
The pain I feel is not "normal" for teenagers
I don't want to be here
On this planet so many call home
I don't want to be in this house I call home
I don't want to be in this vessel I call a body
I just don't
I miss them
I miss them all
Grandfather and Child
When the day took me for a walk
towards the twilight,
I saw my son sowing a kiss on a young lady’s lips.
I felt old.
As if by magic, a grandfather grew within me.
After two minutes’ walk, my mother phoned,
‘How are you my son’, she asked;
and I felt young again, like a child.
Lettuce in Winter
The potting room was a miserable dank
shed, trash-chocked, roofed in plastic, blackberries
ingrown amid bedlam. she dragged it all into
the light, sifting for tools or nails, then
consigning the rest to dump runs. With one son,
the quiet one, she roofed the room with scraps,
tucking, there, or here, oddly-sized old windows.
To the south, a sliding door turned on its side
served for greenhouse glass. A friend's offer
of a chimney to salvage solved the question of how
to floor. With her other son, the tall one, she
rented a long-legged ladder for picking bricks
from the air, frightened at every ragged breath.
They piled them by the plant-room door, and the girl,
Forty-One
Those waiting
at the breakfast
table understood —
though they had not
been told.
Choose
They step aside letting me clean their graves
There is a pagoda in the garden where they wait talking as I mourn
I hear a voice granting me this
That I can give up my life for anyone I wish brought back to life
But only one
Father of sacrifice needs no help to draw my pity
That is piteous
Mother of passion reigned over me
I resent that
Brother of empire I would re-instate
But why
Sister of sullenness I feel for
And ignore
Lovers of the moment I cannot deny
But they did not wait for me
Children of untold stories make the most promises
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