The Forgotten Child

The Forgotten Child

When I was a boy I would sit on the laps of my mother and aunts, looking at the stars, fascinated by the night air. I wouldn’t stop crying unless they took me outside.

When she was a girl her father showed flashes of being the greatest man she’d ever known before he was the first man to break her heart.

When I was a boy I went to live with my mother after she graduated college, only to cry myself to sleep because I wanted to go back to the only home I’d ever known. My grandparents picked me up that same night.

When she was a girl she went and lived with a new family, learned new things, saw new things. A new father, a better father. Until she wasn’t there anymore, until she was back in the darkness. She felt like she deserved the darkness.

When I was a boy I thought I deserved the world.

When she was a girl she felt guilty for getting the world. What makes her special? Why the happy meal and her own room when they weren’t sure if the lights going to be on.

When he was a boy he wrote love letters to girls.

When she was girl she wrote love letters for boys, so her and her sister would have something to eat.

When he was a boy his parents took in the child of a friend.

When she was a woman she took in the child of a friend.

He saw that boy get bigger, healthier, happier.

She helped that boy get bigger, healthier and happier.

When he was a boy he saw his parents cry in the doorway as they took the boy away. The look of helplessness in their eyes knowing his life would never be the same.

When she was a woman she watched them take him away. His smile fading as the memories of his happiness fueled their disdain.

Compassion, compassion in it’s truest form often comes from the ones of those that received very little of it. The forgotten child is often the child that grows up to be the adult that wants to save the forgotten children.

True compassion and selflessness comes with heartbreak. You often find yourself protecting everyone, sacrificing for everyone, giving to everyone. When it’s all over, who has given to you? Who has sacrificed for you? Who is protecting you?

Even as a hero, the forgotten child is often forgotten.

 

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The Arrogance of A Man

dwhiteEven the smartest man can be a fool and not even know it.

Living life blind to the resentment, to the needs of those closest to his heart.

The arrogance of believing that Camelot won’t come crashing down.

The arrogance of believing that what was once pure cannot become tainted.

 

The best of intentions become clouded by the worst of judgements.

The most confident decisions become blinded by moments of insecurity and inadequacy gift wrapped in lies and deception.

The most memorable moments become soaked in insincerity.

The love becomes resentment.

 

Her own arrogance, her own ego, tell her what she needs to do. Tell her what she has to do. To not only win but to survive.

None of those are stronger than her heart. For heart betrays her and her resentment doesn’t push away love but embraces love and makes the hurt that much more painful.

“Do you know how many I have turned down?”

“Do you know how they look at me?”

“Do you know what you did to me?”

More questions than an SAT exam and not nearly enough answers.

More doubt than a tied football game in the closing seconds but there can be no winner.

 

Looking into her eyes, her tears tearing a hole in his soul, her anguish ripping at the fabric of his manhood.

Wanting to fix it all in one night, wanting to heal it all in one moment.

Needing to turn back the hands of time and give her the time she’d been cheated of. Give her the opportunities taken away from her like a thief in the night.

Wanting her to hate him so that she wouldn’t seem so perfect, even in her pain.

 

The arrogance of a man goes against forgiveness.

The love of a woman embraces it.

Knowing that a man could touch her or inhale her after him cuts like a sword through flesh and bone and hurts just as much.

Knowing that her love was no longer guaranteed.

His arrogance died.

Two Voices: One Relationship; One Year

Her Words

Paradox. Thru my eyes my first year in this relationship is summed up in one word: Paradox. This year has been the most beautiful ugly I have ever experienced. We weren’t supposed to be; two tortured souls on different sides of the fence. I’m not even sure we were supposed to be friends. A slave to pain, I knew I loved you the fist time you hurt me. I needed someone to love, I needed someone to gift myself to.

His Words

I’m not even sure what the word paradox means, even though I’m a writer I suck at spelling and am horrible with definitions. If I had to sum up this first year in one word it would be, scary. I’ve spent my entire life being responsible to myself, to my own feelings. Learning to be responsible for someone else’s feelings, someone else’s heart, it scared me. I’m not sure I wanted a girlfriend or even someone to seriously date. I think I just needed a best friend. I needed that Love and Basketball, Brown Sugar, No Strings Attached type of friendship. How do you prepare for needing one thing and falling into something else?

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Her Words

I’ve learned so much in the first six months, like how it’s possible to love again. How the definition of love stays the same but the connotation changes. The expressions of love are all individualized. The allocation of love is circumstantial; and my love for the man that fell into my life was unconditional. I had never lived away from home let alone with someone. To see him have my back everyday despite fights, personal feelings, and dealing with his own demons, made my respect for him grow. All while hating his flaws and mistakes.

His Words

I should write a how to manual. How to be a jerk in six months time, how to push someone in six months time, how to lie and be unapologetic in six months time. What do you call it when you’re not a boy but you’re not a man? When you’re responsible and logical and respected but spoiled, insecure and demanding? You call it the first 6 months of this relationship. It’s not that I didn’t love her, it’s not that I didn’t want her around, it’s that I didn’t know how to return the all engaging love I was being given. Is it possible to resent someone for wanting the best for you, for seeing the best in you? Is it possible to want her to see your flaws so that your words don’t break her heart?

Her Words

The last six months unveiled myself to me. How would I deal with REAL temptation? How would I hold up under real adversity and trials? I’ve let myself down a lot over this past year. But I would redo it every time. Some are not privileged to experience what I have experienced in this past year. To find love once is rare. To experience it on this level; even more so. This year was crazy beautiful and painfully sweet. This year wasn’t fair to me. This year broke me, scarred me, aged me, contradicted me, taught me, soothed me. This year gave me valuables.

His Words

For most of my life I’ve prided myself on being a better man than my father. On being a better man than most of the men I know. This last six months have shown me that every man is one mistake, one relationship, one loving or forgiving woman a way from his own self destruction or self reflection. I have no regrets because each fight, tear, loss has lead me to this exact moment right here. In a generation of women that seem to want everything ready made it’s rare to find a woman that wants to fight the war with you and doesn’t just want the kingdom. She still talks a lot and wears waaaaay too many of my good shirts to lounge in but I wouldn’t exchange her for the world. Well, maybe the world but not a city or country or something 🙂

By Fate or By Choice

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Last Night In Paradise

I struggle every day with being a good man.

I struggle with my demons.

The fear that I won’t be able to live to to the man so many people expect me to be. Is it a mirage, is it a figment of my imagination?

I’ve spent so much of my life trying to be better than the man I see in the mirror that I wonder if it’s eating at my existence?

Am I a good man? I often want to ask people that are close to me. The people that know me intimately and personally. Have I done right by those that have loved me, depended on me? Have I done right by those that saw the best in me?

At night or in the early mornings I wonder if I’m where I’m supposed to be. I wonder if my life has been shaped by fate or by choice?

You’re Worth It

If I tell you you’re worth it; know I mean every word of it.

If I tell you you’re worth it; know I have crossed every mountain and sailed every sea making sure there is not a woman on this earth that is comparable to you.

If I tell you you’re worth it, it means I need you, I want you and I crave you. Not for everything you are but for everything you have the potential to be because your greatness is only going to grow.

You are worth my words, you are worth my soul, you are worth the energy and love that seeps from my pores every time I see you. Every time our bodies are within inches of each other.

You are the novel I can’t finish because every word has to be perfect.

You are the drink that’s too strong and with every sip you go to my head and dull my senses.

You are worth every ounce of my soul.

You are my life.

 

 

There Isn’t A More Dangerous Drug Than Love

Last Night In Paradise

Last Night In Paradise

Have you ever seen someone trying to beat an addiction? Not on a movie or in a book but literally smelt, felt, saw that person not have control of their bodily functions. They couldn’t stop sweating, couldn’t stop scratching, couldn’t sleep. The intensity of the pain almost makes you want to go out and get them the drugs their body is so desperately craving. It’s a fate I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy.

Heroin, cocaine, alcohol, pills, there’s hundreds of drugs people can become addicted to and all of them have the ability to take your life or destroy your life but none of those drugs are as dangerous as love. Love separate’s itself because unlike crack or coke or even liquor love can’t be treated with medicine or rehab. There’s no 12 step program for getting someone out of your heart and your thoughts.

I once read that it takes twice as long as you were with someone to get over them. I’m not sure if that’s true but I wouldn’t doubt it, especially if the love was real. If it was intense and serious. The thing about love that we seem to forget is that it isn’t in our heads, love is an actual drug that seeps into our veins and it changes us.

When you feel like you’re about to lose that man or woman you love, your heart starts beating fast, your head hurts. You can’t hold any food down because you feel nauseous, all your energy is gone. Work doesn’t seem as important, family doesn’t seem as important. It’s almost as if your world stops at the thought of a life without them. That’s the effect love has on us, no other drug can do that.

You can get coke from a dozen different dealers. You can get liquor from a hundred different restaurants and stores. Most highs come in varieties but love is usually unique to one person. Think about that for a second; imagine having the flu and there was only one doctor on this earth that has the medicine you need. That’s love. There’s only one person that can stop the pain that started in your heart but that has taken over and paralyzed your body.

It’s okay to feel like you’re immune, like “That will never happen to me.” But if you’ve never felt the pain of love than you’ve never felt the pleasure of love either. If you’ve never felt the withdraws of someone you need to survive, than you’d never felt the high of holding a woman in your arms and feeling as though you don’t even need oxygen as long as the warmth of her breath is on your neck. Love is dangerous and cruel at times but that is only surpassed by the beauty of that same love.

Doubts As A Writer; Insecurities As A Man

IMG_0701It’s not realistic to me sometimes that I’m going to be anywhere near who are what I want to be. To some this might be perceived as a lack of self-confidence or confidence in my writing or abilities but to be it’s just the hand I’ve been dealt when it comes to my mental and emotional makeup. This one quote sticks in my mind constantly since I’ve heard it. “Almost every writer as one book in them, almost no one has two books.” I get asked at least once a week where the sequel is to my first novel. It’s been almost 4 years now. There’s always a reasonable excuse but the truth is every version I write just doesn’t feel good enough.

For a man like me that’s incredibly confident in most things I do, it’s almost impossible to explain what it’s like to be hesitant about something that I know I’m great at. If Tom Brady was born to throw a football and Kobe was born to shoot a basketball and Shakespeare was born to write plays, I was born to write novels. So why is it that I have this weight of the world type fear in my heart when it comes to something that I love to do so much?

I wrote my first novel when I was in the 11th grade. It was front and back on a 70 page notebook tablet. I’d broken up with my girlfriend and used her and her friends and myself and my friends as characters. Because this was in the age before social media and blogs the way it got read was that it got passed around from person to person. People trying to figure out which character was which and what was reality and what I’d made up in my mind. It was at that moment, at that juncture in my life that I knew I could write. That I knew this wasn’t going to be a hobby for me. So now 14 years removed from that moment I feel as though my spirit is breaking at the thought that I won’t fulfill my destiny.

Sometimes I’m afraid that I’m incapable of ever truly opening up to someone. Incapable of ever loving someone in a way that will allow me to be vulnerable. Saying things like, “I miss you” or “I love you” or “I need you” have always been easier to put in a letter or write in a book then they have been to say out loud. When you find yourself not able to open up to someone on any level, what happens is all of that “stuff” in your head manifest itself into self-doubt, self-loathing, the inability to accept the shoulder or hand someone that cares about you is offering you. That inability is what makes me the writer I am but that inability is what makes me the writer I’m not.

In the dawn of the morning all I want some days is for her to hug me and tell me that I am everything I believe I am. No real drawn out conversations, no pretty words. Just my head on her stomach and her looking down on me with those eyes that say I need you and I believe in you. I can’t say I’ve ever felt that, not if I’m being honest. I’ve had people say those things to me and say those pretty words but that moment when I know that they believe in me just as much as I believe in me. That’s priceless.

These are just the ramblings of a writer in the morning hours of a Saturday. Letting whoever reads this know that you are not alone if you feel those doubts, if you feel alone.

Demez F. White