Here’s a poem I just wrote yesterday actually. Rhyming isn’t usually something I do well, but I feel this one came flowing out pretty decent!


Until I was old enough

To have true insight,

My father was perfect,

Us together—just right.


Reflecting on it now,

My childhood was a lie.

It was Mother who was there for me,

Not Dad, when I cried.


Where was this man,

When I was too weak to stand?

It was Mother next to me,

Holding my hand.


The best memory I have

Is a crinkled photograph now.

My cousin and I,

Putting on a play for Father Cow.


We’re performing our hearts out,

Thinking he’s watching intently.

The basketball game on TV

Is more important evidently.


Dad is well-liked by his colleagues,

As they don’t know his true self.

“My life is an open book,” he says;

But it sits closed, on the shelf.


I’m grateful to have him in my life.

My dearest friend doesn’t have the pleasure

Of having a father present,

And falsified memories to treasure.


About AmbleDamsel

Truthfully, I’m writing this blog because I’m too much of a wimp to share my poems with most people I know. I’m hoping this blog will be a way to get honest feedback about them, without offending anyone. I generally prefer to write privately, and with pen and paper. There’s just something much more therapeutic & enjoyable about actually handwriting something–a better feeling than any lousy keyboard could ever give me! People who inspire me: John Lennon, Keri Smith, Sabrina Ward Harrison, Conor Oberst, Ethel Kennedy, Brooks Strause, Charles Bukowski, Walt Whitman, Emily Dickinson, E.E. Cummings, Charles Dickens, Henry Darger, and Orly Avineri.

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