How does a mother explain to a daughter
That the father she has loved-
The man who took the young girl in his arms to teach her how to dance in the musty attic, the father who sang her to sleep when the nightmares turned to terrors, the dad who taught her that laughter is the cure to everything;
How does a mother tell her daughter he chose a drink over his princess?
A gulp of liquid death whose fire burned
Not only down the throat,
But in the lives of the prisoner who that devil caught.
How did she tell her?
No words.
No mention of why daddy had fallen in that attic,
No saying that he'll come back.
No one ever told me that the reason I wake up screaming is from the dreams that can't be quieted without him. No mother told me that the wonderful man I remember, full of love and life had been drowning in his own choices. No it was left to a journal found way deep in a box for a young girl to come find.
And now the fire is not pouring down a throat,
Nor in the attic of that once life-full home.
That fire is in his little girl, who forgot how to dance and whose dreams still haunt her, the one who forgot what it means to laugh.

I'm going to capture it all
bottle it up
and let it be
the ink for my brush strokes.

Depression had been my companion for a while,
I felt trapped in a body wracked with pain.
My heart was heavy.

I saw her running down the isle of the supermarket,
All of three years old, golden curls billowing behind,
A look of pure joy on her face,
An angel straight from heaven right in our midst.

Her mother walked behind,
Lines of care and tension etching her face.
I saw she was living in a world of struggle and turmoil.
"Glenda" she called,
"How many times have I told you not to do that".
Her hand spun out -- she gave the child a whack.
I saw surprise and a veil dull the eyes
That a moment ago were so alive.
"Don't ever do that again." she slowly said.

For one moment I remembered what it felt like to be so free,
For in that child I saw me.  
I remembered how it felt to have a heart that had no boundary,
To have a body light as can be.
When was I told not to be me?

I wanted to say
"Dear child don't let that experience deter you
Remember who you really are.
Always remember that feeling of freedom that surrounds you.
Dont forget who you really are
And never be afraid to be who you are."
Stay open and remember where you were
Before you even arrived here on earth

You come from a place of rainbows, butterflies and angels,
A place where everything is possible and achievable
A place where miracles happen
And a place where there is only love
Reach for the moon, reach for the stars
You are a light sent from afar

"You deserve a medal," she told me.
Aren't they just a reminder of someone else's pain?
Scars of gold, silver, and bronze.
The soldier's reward for a victim's funeral.

"if it doesn't come bursting out of you
in spite of everything,
don't do it.
unless it comes unasked out of your
heart and your mind and your mouth
and your gut,
don't do it.
if you have to sit for hours
staring at your computer screen
or hunched over your
typewriter
searching for words,
don't do it.
if you're doing it for money or
fame,
don't do it.
if you're doing it because you want
women in your bed,
don't do it.
if you have to sit there and
rewrite it again and again,
don't do it.
if it's hard work just thinking about doing it,
don't do it.
if you're trying to write like somebody
else,
forget about it.
if you have to wait for it to roar out of
you,
then wait patiently.
if it never does roar out of you,
do something else.

if you first have to read it to your wife
or your girlfriend or your boyfriend
or your parents or to anybody at all,
you're not ready.

don't be like so many writers,
don't be like so many thousands of
people who call themselves writers,
don't be dull and boring and
pretentious, don't be consumed with self-
love.
the libraries of the world have
yawned themselves to
sleep
over your kind.
don't add to that.
don't do it.
unless it comes out of
your soul like a rocket,
unless being still would
drive you to madness or
suicide or ******,
don't do it.
unless the sun inside you is
burning your gut,
don't do it.

when it is truly time,
and if you have been chosen,
it will do it by
itself and it will keep on doing it
until you die or it dies in you.

there is no other way.

and there never was." - Charles Bukowski