Short Stories

Please tell her I love her…

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Image source: Google images (wonderopolis.org)

 

From birth until now
She has had to fight
For her independence.

An emotionally distant father,
An emotionally abusive mother,
An entire childhood of low self worth.

Mental games, manipulation,
Blackmail, control tactics —
It’s a miracle she made it out alive.

Her battle scars
Are wrapped around
Her mind, heart and soul.

Forty years is a long time
To be in battle.
No wonder she’s tired!

I don’t pity her,
She doesn’t want or need that,
She needs my love much more.

It’s so easy to love her,
But she resists —
She thinks she needs to earn it.

When I tell her
My love is unconditional
She cries in humility.

She just can’t understand
How she deserves
Such an untethered gift.

She has gone so long
Without true love
She finds me too good to be true.

Her battle scars
Are her pride and joy
In them she has found character.

If only she knew
I’d happily fight for her —
If only she’d let me.

Sometimes I think she forgets
I gave my life for hers once.
Will you please tell her I love her?

Sincerely,
JESUS.

 

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Image source: Google images (dreamstime.com)

Contents written: May 17 2016  |  Originally published: May 18 2016  |  Copyright © 2016 Moylom Enterprises


Poetry, Short Stories

Betrayed…

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As the emotional dagger
Protruded from her bleeding back,
She looked into her mother’s eyes
Searching for answers.

The pain she felt was unbearable.
She wondererd how
The one to whom
She ran for help
Could be the one
To hurt her so badly.

The betrayal left her confused.
Why would her own mother,
The one who knew her best,
Use that knowledge
To ensure her demise.

All those years
Of calculated mind games
At the hands
Of her maternal instructor,
Did not prepare her
For this final battle.

Was she a poor student,
Or did her mother change
The rules of the game?
She did not anticipate
This backhanded move.

As the blood poured out of her,
In the form of her stolen children
She would never get to raise,
She mustered the strength
To offer up one last plea.

“How could you do this to me, mother?
I’m your only daughter.
How could you deprive me
The opportunity
To be a mother to my own children?”

Her mother responded
With a cold, dead stare,
“Don’t worry dear,
It’s alright, you’ll get over it ”

But how does one get over death?
Her heart sank,
Along with the dreams
She had to be with her children.

Fifteen tortured years she waited,
But by then it was too late.
Her babies were grown
And didn’t know her.

The bond was broken.
She would never really
Know her children.
And so she dies slowly each day,
Of betrayal and a broken heart.
The blood pours out of her,
The loss, incomprehensible.

Contents written: August 23 2016
Originally published: August 24 2016
Copyright © 2016 Moylom Enterprises

Poetry

When humor hurts…

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The ripe sarcasm
Of your words, said in jest,
Cut deep under my skin,
But are never accompanied 
By any soothing nuances
To let me know
You have a soul
Under your exterior of humor.

Laughter, they say,
Is good medicine
For the soul.
But it seems
You laugh to hide
Your inability to show love.

Perhaps you show love
In a way I cannot comprehend.
Perhaps I don’t recognize it
Because it’s not
The kind of love I need.

How sad,
That after all this time
You don’t understand me at all.
How frustrating
That I can’t discuss this with you
Without starting a fight.

I don’t want to fight,
I don’t want to hurt you.
I rather spend
The remainder of your days
Creating happy memories
For you are the only one left.

But, how gut-wrenching,
That there will always be
An underlying sense of insincerity,
For there is no humor
To ever compensate
For love not felt
From one’s own mother.

 


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Image source: Google images
Contents compiled: October 3 2016
Originally published: October 4 2016
Copyright © 2016 Moylom Enterprises


Uncategorized

Buried…

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Image source: Google images

The things that hurt —
The things we want to say
But know we can’t
For those to whom
We must tell these things,
Will most likely not want
To hear our words.
So we hold our tongues,
Pretend all is well,
And try to live normal lives
All while keeping these things buried.

But our journals know;
Strangers know too!
For should we not speak these things at all
Their potent presence in our souls
Would cause them to erupt
At moments least expected.
So speak we must
Before these things consume us
But not to the ones
To whom they pertain,
For to them these things
Will open enormous ‘cans of worms’,
So perhaps they must indeed stay buried.


Contents written: December 13 2015  | Originally published: July 28 2016  |  Copyright © 2016 Moylom Enterprises