Window

1 Comments

Tags:
  • Sadness
    • jude
    • says what is status to true life anyways

    Window

    Before reading this poem, I want to explain that Daddy is the term I use for my childrens father--it is kind of pertinent to the message I intend, but it can be used either way.






    Window

    “Come back daddy”
    But I can always feel you driving away
    You never hear me
    Or you turn away
    It makes me sad
    To learn who I am to you
    And sadder still
    To learn who you are to me
    Keep looking at the window
    Hope to see you looking through
    Past my reflection
    Past your rejection
    Keep hoping some day you’ll
    See what your missing
    And the folly you have been
    Giving me up for
    But you never do
    I explain it less and less to you

    All these obligations
    All these points of station
    And smart people, good people, successful people
    Funny people, great people, new best friends
    Beginnings no ends
    You work so hard for all of them
    I hear of those fears and look through your window
    Of the words you use
    The picture you paint on the wall behind those windowpanes
    Look to my feet in defeat at the wall my window is on
    When I see my reflection—I see Dawn
    But that picture you paint of me and hang for them to see…
    Behind the window pain
    For yourself, for me…

    And I keep saying, “Come back Daddy”
    Sometimes pretending that once upon a time you were there,
    Looking in

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    devaamido commented on Window

    06-20-2009

    You’ve painted a masterpiece of poignant longing “to be discovered’ by an absent or preoccupied father. How well I understand…from both sides. This poem gets my 10.

    jude

    06/21/2009

    The father of my children

    jude

    06/21/2009

    all poems mentioning a "daddy" refers to the father of my children, my own father would be referred to just as "you", and perhaps dad once in a blue moon, but our relationship makes me want to call him by his real name. I don't mention him often.

    Poetry is either something that lives like fire inside you or else it is nothing, an empty formalized bore around which pedants can endlessly drone their notes and explanations.

    Unknown Source

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