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The Poetry Corner

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Being Grateful


From the time of my birth,

Others have tried to define my worth.

Expected to be a compliant blank slate,

I had no choice in deciding my fate.

Never would I be able to mourn,

For the mother from whom I was torn.

On that night long ago most fateful,

Expected always to be grateful.


Told to be thankful to have providers,

Always feeling like the outsider.

Told to be thankful for what I’ve been given,

By those who seem to be jealously driven.

Told to be thankful for their sacrifice,

Which always came at a high price.

Behind your back their talk is hateful,

 Complaining of how you are never grateful.


It is very hard when I was taunted,

With the thought I wasn’t wanted.

Told to behave or I’d be sent back,

To the very family that gave me the sack.

Never feeling emotionally supported,

I often wished I was aborted.

At the risk of sounding ungrateful,

Please tell me again why I should be grateful.




Redemption is something often perceived,

As something elusive and rarely achieved.

For those who wrong we are often driven,

To make sure they remain the unforgiven.

But what of those wronged by another,

Why must the guilt seem to smother?

We think, deep inside, it's somehow our fault,

That somehow we deserve their assault.

Mistakenly turning around the blame,

Becoming stuck within the shame.

From ourselves we try to hide,

Looking for answers from outside.

Looking to others to make us whole,

But the pain inside they cannot console.

Feeling alone and empty inside,

Burying deeper what we cannot abide.

Until we are ready to face the pain,

A sense of peace we cannot attain.

Guaranteed, without exemption,

We all must find our own redemption.




From many I've heard say,
Life is just a game to play.
During the game we all know,
Your whole hand you never show.
That which we choose to hide,
We keep closely by our side.
Depending on the current task,
We all put on a certain mask.

But does the game ever end?
Do the rules ever bend?
Are there those that we let in?
With whom we can be genuine?
Or has the mask become a regime,
Forcing others to the outer extreme?
For in what pleasure could we bask,
If we always wear a mask?

For some because a mask is new,
Opaqueness lets you see right through.
For those who have learned the trick,
After much betrayal it becomes quite thick.
Whether they're color, or black and white,
Their mystery always seems to invite.
But would one ever dare to ask,
Are you for real? Or just a mask?

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