Week Ten
posted: 11/12/22
lines: 16
lessons to my children; from my mother; or my past; or my future; and to you again.
i've reached this strange age where
sometimes instead of having imagined conversations
with myself, instead i am sharing some hopeful-wisdom
to my own unborn imagined children; i sit them on my knee,
and sing to them about these little lessons earned from another
scraped knee, and bruised heart, i try to gently teach them to be careful
in this rough-edged world, without making them afraid;
i don't know when i gave up telling myself these things
and decided the next generation of my imagination was
better suited to my advice; i hope it isn't because i gave up on her;
the self that knows too well that knees will be scraped, and hearts bruised,
who has learned from repetition the lessons i scratch across my journals
again; again; and again. i hope it isn't because i think i already know
all i have to learn. and i hope in some alternate imagination-realm
that my mother, or my past-self, or my future-self, sits me on her knee
and tells me once more the world is not something to be afraid of.
Gender:
Points: 144000
Reviews: 1228