I am from empty bottles on the counter
From Jack Daniels and bleach on the floor
I am from the boxes stored outback
(Worn down. Never used.
They couldn't hold)
I am from not tasting the food
Before it has finished cooking
And the obnoxious laughter from my father
That I picked up as my own
I'm from galloping children falling down,
Before we knew how to walk
I am from the violence that shook
In my mother's voice and the
Independent bank account that I
Could never face.
From selfish bastard and to lovely
Child, I am from a personal Hell that
I was told did not exist. I'm from forgotten
Words and broken voices,
All making me stronger in the end
I'm from Idaho--the land up North
From unsalted popcorn and bitter raisins,
From the tree in the front yard that we used
To climb, yet never reaching the top.
I am from the box tucked under the stairs,
A thing nobody acknowledges
But we all know it's there.
YOU ARE READING
The Diary of Me
PoetryI have marked this story as "completed" but I don't know if it will ever actual be complete. This is my journal, my secrets, my thoughts. This is The Diary of Me.
