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I don't know why, but this is the second issue in which I am including some of the "downer" pieces I have written. Maybe I've just used up all the happy stuff first? Well, anyway, here is another depressing little poem I wrote about a year ago during some hard times.

"Pried Pride"

My name is Anne,
and I have many friends,
but I wish somebody was proud of me.

So I do what I can,
but the work never ends,
just so someone will be proud of me.

I try to be pure,
I try to be good.
Macho or demure,
I do what I should,
all because I was sure,
that somebody would,
be proud of me.

My mother suffered.
an unfulfilled pride,
not her own, but from others,
and often she cried,
that she hoped she would hear,
in the moment she died,
"Well done!",
from the One,
who was proud of her.

Now, I know that I suffer,
a similar fate,
and though I am tired,
and though it is late,
these words will not keep,
these thoughts will not wait,
in the hope that somebody is proud of me.

So I fill all their needs,
but no pat on the head,
and I solve all their problems,
in life or in bed,
like my mother,
who soon will be dead,
with no one to say they are proud of her.

It's too late for me,
but I leave you this charge:
that I'm not alone,
in the world at large.
Their needs are like mine,
and it just takes a word,
but their hearts remain empty,
until it is heard.

We each have the power,
to bring them some peace,
to quiet their fears,
to make their tears cease.
So whenever you see them,
in bar or in pew,
let them know that you're proud,
and I'll be proud of you..

Ah, now don't cry! Its just a poem and I'm all better now! See... :)

May you never find occasion to say, "If only....."

The Subversive #15

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