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To My Parents
I'd make myself smaller if I could, but
I already made me as small as I
Possibly could, still that wasn't small
Enough for me to fit into your way of life.
I've lied to myself, I've cried at the
Things I could never be.
I've died too many tiny deaths in
Your presence to feel alive
When we're together.
The bridge between us
Is in disrepair, my thoughts of
You lately make me despair.
Maybe we both shouldn't care.
You once told me to wait,
To let old things die before I
Came out. I fell for your bait.
I don't know how to make
It right before it's too late.
Maybe I shouldn't though,
Because I'm happiest, I'm
Most myself when you aren't
Around and I'm done dying
And lying over you,
Done crying over your
Dead son.
Next time you see me I hope
You'll understand, because
I'll be my most genuine self,
A star you can admire from afar.
Lots of love and light on
Lots of love and light on your new life Diamond a powerful deeply emotional write. I hear you. Hugss
Don't let any one shake your dream stars from your eyes, lest your soul Come away with them! -SS
"Well, it's love, but not as we know it."
I am amazed by the
I am amazed by the serendipitous posting of this comment on this day which is, for me, a date of personal significance. On this day, forty-five years ago (and in that year, the ninth of September also fell on a Thursday), my parents inflicted upon me one of their worst schemes for attempting to control, belittle, and diminish me---which was simply one more in a pattern very similar to the pattern your poem describes. Thus, your poem both validates my experience, and also demonstrates that this experience is not a singularity for any one person; it happens to more than one, more than once. The reading of this poem was, for me, highly personal---more affective, in that way, than most poems that I read on this site. This is not just the art of poetry---although your poem is highly literate and verbally effective: this is a shared experience in two different chronological venues. Although they were very middle midde-class, my parents tried to give me every material advantage---but there was always a string attached: a condition I had to meet, or a statement of how the gift was more than I deserved, or a prediction that I would fail to appreciate it, or to use the opportunity to my advantage. My paternal grandmother, who had been raised in dire poverty, often pointed out to her son, my father, that the gifts were not truly gifts for the sake of giving but merely demonstrations of power.
Thank you for posting this magnificent poem. I really do believe you have spoken for those of us who cannot articulate the problem and its emotional effect nearly as well as you have in this poem; or for those who dare not speak up at all. This is a beautiful poem, but also spiritually, socially, and psychologically very valuable to read . . . and then re-read, and then read again. I believe this poem will help many others.
Starward