Bring It Home

The writings of an
eight year old stand
out like
Helvetica bold,

scribbles of
a wayward soul who never
had a thing
going for him.

Growing up with
holes in every
other wall, crooked
pictures that
seemed to
line the hall as
an art style,
not the toll of

The fourteen year
old who
walked out that front door was
still a child, unaware just
how many
miles it would
set him back.

A teenager who
forgot what
genuine laughter
was, tried
applying love to
the blackest

It ended up in
one thousand

But here
I am, double his
lifetime later with twice
the desperate

the advice
gone unheeded but my
rotten organ’s
still beating.

This is my
story, a tome I spent
decades pouring over
in the hopes of finding some
four leaf clover.

This is
history, written
by the victor.

Its blood’s
on my tongue and its pain
in my molars,

misnomers and exaggerations
my Anglicization
of a
bitter dispute I was
destined to lose
but emerged the
moral center

of all

I always wrote to
purge my
weakness, exorcise
inherent cold, but
I’m still
here, stronger
than ever.

Maybe it’s
time to finally
bring my


3 thoughts on “Bring It Home

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