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21 August, 2012

When I was a boy

  a gift was given to me ‑‑

  a beautiful angel in candle form.

I longed so to have it light up my room,

  but fell to tears

  because that purpose would have killed her.

Though only four, I understood.


I still understand

  and I am still sad.



From → Stories & Poetry

  1. How could you not. At such a young age, this boy already knows the meaning of life and cares more about others than himself. Adding to that is his innocence that could not tell what is real.
    What I like about your poems is that after finish reading them you find yourself looking at a painting with an emotion that varies depending on how the reader feel about it. I had a hard time understanding the titles of your 4 season poems in the beginning, and they don’t give me any feelings because they are not the memories of my life. TI on the contrary brought back a whole sky full of memories. Only those who lived in VN at that time understand the meaning of those sandbags. I was lucky that I did not have to go through such a hard life like Ti.

    • You are wise not to suggest or pursue directly the link. That has to come from within the client. If handled carefully, the simple act of exploring a symptom can elicit one or more events. Let it unfold. For many, if not most survivors, the connection is automatic. I had people experience flashbacks simply by reading the poem I Must Be Going Crazy. If the abuse is there, the challenge leans more toward managing the flood of memories than anything, though most have a built-in safety valve that prevents remembering more than can be handled at any given time. You might want to check out my papers.

  2. I’m melted by this poem.

    • Risking that your comment was not tongue-in-cheek, I’m glad you liked it. There are times when loving can destroy.

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