This story is not about me. It's about a close friend of mine.
HATE YOU!
*gasp*
I HATE YOU!
*tear*
I HATE YOU!
How could you do this to me?!
Why did you do this to me?!
I trusted you!
So explicitely,
I let you in
when no one else could touch me
you RUINED me!
I really shouldn't expect much from you...
You never changed.
No matter how hard I wished,
No matter how hard I cried,
No matter how hard I begged you to be different,
you never changed.
You sat their with your crooked little grin.
You called me a Baby.
I am a Baby.
Your Baby.
The one you decided to throw away.
I was supposed to be your precious daughter,
instead I became an orphan searching for a father.
You weren't the man I needed,
You were the man I wanted.
The man I loved with all my heart
without restraint
but now full of regret.
I waited for you for so long!
I stood on those front steps
WAITING for you!
Can't you see,
my little footprints marked by the rain.
I waited!
You were always just around the corner,
You were always on your way back to me.
I remember the day I realized you weren't coming back.
That you were NEVER coming back.
I told mama, no.
I called her a liar.
I told her I knew you were coming.
You wouldn't do this to me.
You wouldn't leave me all alone!
I was wrong.
It broke my fragile heart,
You were suppossed to show me how to love.
You were suppossed to protect me.
You were supposed to be my Daddy.
Even when a new man came into my life,
All I could see was you leaving me again!
There were nights when I could hear your car coming up the street,
and when things got tough I still hoped you would swoop in to save the day.
But you never came.
Even years after I let my anger wash over me,
and bitterness stained my soul.
Even after I let the hatred bath over me,
I still wanted you.
Then I remembered
I called out to you, and you never came.
I cried for you!
You didn't care!
You went off and made a new family,
And unlike me they got to share the love
I was unworthy of.
Even now as I think about it
It fills me with sorrow that
With every breathe my chest gets tighter,
my heart heavier!
No matter how much I try to hate you
It hurts me more than it could ever hurt you!
It hurts that you NEVER wanted me, but
I'm still that little girl waiting for you.
I'm still that little girl waiting in the pouring rain,
Watching your brake lights head off in the distance,
wishing,
hoping you'd come back this time.
Can't you see that I Love you!
I LOVE YOU!
How could you do this to me?
I love you...
Friday, June 25, 2010
My Story
This story is fiction.
"Everyone has a story to tell. What will you say?"
Recently I was purposed with this question. At the time a plethora of things went rolling through my head. Questions. Statements. Some made valid points others I decided to rebuke. (They were a long the lines of "Who would are?" and "Why does it matter?") All entirely unhelpful to actually answering the question.
My professor challenged all of us to sit down and write about a page of what our story would say. He gave us an hour in class to complete the assignment. The clock ticked and tocked the whole way through, and somehow I still couldn't find the words to say.
My story? What did that even mean? I was baffeled, at a loss for MY words to MY story. What did he want me to say?
As Iooked up from my thoughts and realized that there was only 15 minutes left, I decided not to write a mere summary of my life and its events. Instead I wrote this:
"MY STORY" by Penelope Morgan
"Of all the things I could write this topic should be the simplest. Who knows me better than me? I could entertain you with my witicisms and ponderings of a simpleton, challenge you with the truth or comfort you with the details of my personal pain. Of all the things I could say, this is the easiest. No matter what words leave my mouth or are formed by my pen, nothing shouts louder than the words my actions write.
I could spend an hour simply informing you of what I believe, who I am and what led me to these conclusions, but my story isn't written in ink. It can't be contained by the confides of paper. It isn't simply made of great events and special occasions.
My story is seen everyday with the every breathe, every glance, smile, tear, touch or gesture. The smallest parts ofme scream of the deepest parts of myself.
So again, I could spend an hour giving you useless facts about my life, but that's not my story. My life is, and you have a front row seat to my one woman show."
As I finished up my little essay I thought, "UGH! Why couldn't you simply answer the question?"
I turned in my paper with what I'm sure was a look of worry written on my face (pun intended). I could almost feel the "F" coming my way. I quietly slinked out of the classroom disappointed with myself.
I debated the next day about asking the professor to redo the assignment, but I decided that I should take what was given to me. I walked into class not very hopeful. I could see the stack of papers neatly positioned at the corner of the professor's desk taunting me.
I sat down in my usual seat and slid as far down as I possibly could prepared for the worst. The professor started as usual, right on time.
As I waited for him to pass out the papers something strange happened. Instead of handing out the first paper, he began to read it. As the words swirled to through the air, I realized he was reading MY paper. Didn't see that one coming.
After he finished he looked up at me from behind his reading glasses and said,
"This young woman chose not, like many of you did, to simply rattle off, as she puts it, "useless facts" about herself.
Although it was wonderful to learn about your many colorful personal lives and beliefs, she alone understood my original question. 'What will you say?' She took it one step further. She realized that no mere description could contain the depth of the impact her everyday actions have in the novel of her life. Like many good authors, she knows that she may be the author of her story, but it is her audience that will determine its meaning. Superb job Ms. Morgan".
"Everyone has a story to tell. What will you say?"
Recently I was purposed with this question. At the time a plethora of things went rolling through my head. Questions. Statements. Some made valid points others I decided to rebuke. (They were a long the lines of "Who would are?" and "Why does it matter?") All entirely unhelpful to actually answering the question.
My professor challenged all of us to sit down and write about a page of what our story would say. He gave us an hour in class to complete the assignment. The clock ticked and tocked the whole way through, and somehow I still couldn't find the words to say.
My story? What did that even mean? I was baffeled, at a loss for MY words to MY story. What did he want me to say?
As Iooked up from my thoughts and realized that there was only 15 minutes left, I decided not to write a mere summary of my life and its events. Instead I wrote this:
"MY STORY" by Penelope Morgan
"Of all the things I could write this topic should be the simplest. Who knows me better than me? I could entertain you with my witicisms and ponderings of a simpleton, challenge you with the truth or comfort you with the details of my personal pain. Of all the things I could say, this is the easiest. No matter what words leave my mouth or are formed by my pen, nothing shouts louder than the words my actions write.
I could spend an hour simply informing you of what I believe, who I am and what led me to these conclusions, but my story isn't written in ink. It can't be contained by the confides of paper. It isn't simply made of great events and special occasions.
My story is seen everyday with the every breathe, every glance, smile, tear, touch or gesture. The smallest parts ofme scream of the deepest parts of myself.
So again, I could spend an hour giving you useless facts about my life, but that's not my story. My life is, and you have a front row seat to my one woman show."
As I finished up my little essay I thought, "UGH! Why couldn't you simply answer the question?"
I turned in my paper with what I'm sure was a look of worry written on my face (pun intended). I could almost feel the "F" coming my way. I quietly slinked out of the classroom disappointed with myself.
I debated the next day about asking the professor to redo the assignment, but I decided that I should take what was given to me. I walked into class not very hopeful. I could see the stack of papers neatly positioned at the corner of the professor's desk taunting me.
I sat down in my usual seat and slid as far down as I possibly could prepared for the worst. The professor started as usual, right on time.
As I waited for him to pass out the papers something strange happened. Instead of handing out the first paper, he began to read it. As the words swirled to through the air, I realized he was reading MY paper. Didn't see that one coming.
After he finished he looked up at me from behind his reading glasses and said,
"This young woman chose not, like many of you did, to simply rattle off, as she puts it, "useless facts" about herself.
Although it was wonderful to learn about your many colorful personal lives and beliefs, she alone understood my original question. 'What will you say?' She took it one step further. She realized that no mere description could contain the depth of the impact her everyday actions have in the novel of her life. Like many good authors, she knows that she may be the author of her story, but it is her audience that will determine its meaning. Superb job Ms. Morgan".
Immortality
How beautiful life is,
Full of breath,
The heart beating rhythmically beneath the chest.
How quickly it can be stolen,
Life's melody interupted.
How marvelous its affect even after death.
For life goes on,
by the inspiration it left behind
Not in it's brief song.
Full of breath,
The heart beating rhythmically beneath the chest.
How quickly it can be stolen,
Life's melody interupted.
How marvelous its affect even after death.
For life goes on,
by the inspiration it left behind
Not in it's brief song.
Thursday, June 24, 2010
My Dear John Letter
What's up world?
Nothing changed much?
or has everything changed?
You aren't exactly the most stable basis of morals or truths.
In fact, for most of my life I believed your lies.
And at first things went well.
I forgot all about the truths God had whispered
quietly into my young ears and heart
I decided that your loud bleating voice must be who I turned to.
So I filled myself with your pride,
with YOUR justice, and feel good attitude,
but you know what?
at the end of the day nothing had changed.
I was still empty.
I didn't hear it at the time,
but God was calling out to me.
I was so far away there were times His voice was just
a small echo reverberating through my mind.
I couldn't see it at the time,
but He was moving.
His hand was reaching out to me,
and I was the chasm seperating the two of us.
Just like the dark before the morning when everything is black
and all I could see was you,
skewing my view,
He was preparing a painting.
Just like the silence before the birds sing,
and all I could hear was your guilt driven shameful sorrow washing over me,
He was preparing a symphony.
And in that silence, that utter darkness
when I thought all was lost
and I was too far gone.
I felt His touch.
I heard His voice.
I saw His truth.
I had fought hard to forget,
that what I see is what I get.
His beauty,
His love,
All for me.
Paid at high cost
on that Blessed tree.
I had fought hard to forget,
that all my shame and all my regret,
All My Fear
All My Anger
All these jagged pieces
Are loved beyond belief.
That He loved me enough
To set me Free.
All this came flooding back to me.
And when I reached out for His hand,
It was there.
Not like YOU so many times before.
When i cried out to Him,
He took me into His arms.
He was everything I ever wanted.
So many nights I wished someone would love me unconditionally.
So many nights I wished someone could look past all my doubts and insecurities.
So many nights I wished someone like Him would come along.
I promised myself I would settle for ANYTHING similiar.
I wasted so much time running from Him,
when He was all I
needed
wanted.
So here I am, world, writing my Dear John letter to you.
Here are all your broken promises
and lies.
I don't want them any more.
Here are all your chains
I don't need them any more.
Here's the person you thought you could destroy.
Here's the person who tried so desperately to impress you.
Here's the insecruity, shame, rage, fear, doubt, and lies you gave to me.
I'm replacing them with confidence, honor, patience, and truth.
I am new.
and no matter what you do,
I have Him to Pull Me Through.
So Long World,
I found the best.
Nothing changed much?
or has everything changed?
You aren't exactly the most stable basis of morals or truths.
In fact, for most of my life I believed your lies.
And at first things went well.
I forgot all about the truths God had whispered
quietly into my young ears and heart
I decided that your loud bleating voice must be who I turned to.
So I filled myself with your pride,
with YOUR justice, and feel good attitude,
but you know what?
at the end of the day nothing had changed.
I was still empty.
I didn't hear it at the time,
but God was calling out to me.
I was so far away there were times His voice was just
a small echo reverberating through my mind.
I couldn't see it at the time,
but He was moving.
His hand was reaching out to me,
and I was the chasm seperating the two of us.
Just like the dark before the morning when everything is black
and all I could see was you,
skewing my view,
He was preparing a painting.
Just like the silence before the birds sing,
and all I could hear was your guilt driven shameful sorrow washing over me,
He was preparing a symphony.
And in that silence, that utter darkness
when I thought all was lost
and I was too far gone.
I felt His touch.
I heard His voice.
I saw His truth.
I had fought hard to forget,
that what I see is what I get.
His beauty,
His love,
All for me.
Paid at high cost
on that Blessed tree.
I had fought hard to forget,
that all my shame and all my regret,
All My Fear
All My Anger
All these jagged pieces
Are loved beyond belief.
That He loved me enough
To set me Free.
All this came flooding back to me.
And when I reached out for His hand,
It was there.
Not like YOU so many times before.
When i cried out to Him,
He took me into His arms.
He was everything I ever wanted.
So many nights I wished someone would love me unconditionally.
So many nights I wished someone could look past all my doubts and insecurities.
So many nights I wished someone like Him would come along.
I promised myself I would settle for ANYTHING similiar.
I wasted so much time running from Him,
when He was all I
needed
wanted.
So here I am, world, writing my Dear John letter to you.
Here are all your broken promises
and lies.
I don't want them any more.
Here are all your chains
I don't need them any more.
Here's the person you thought you could destroy.
Here's the person who tried so desperately to impress you.
Here's the insecruity, shame, rage, fear, doubt, and lies you gave to me.
I'm replacing them with confidence, honor, patience, and truth.
I am new.
and no matter what you do,
I have Him to Pull Me Through.
So Long World,
I found the best.
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