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Those can never say It simply,
Because we never simply say what It could be,
Because the It just is,
Even before we experience It,
(For what it’s worth).

Now and then,
We can hear the truth inside it,
When it is a rain drop splashing,
Before the tear drops,
Laughing, anyway, is a drop of medicine,
On the tongue,
Like a drug,
To have and have not,
Dabbled in,
Any kind of coping,
Insert for amends,
But we’re alike,
Not like our parents,
Other times, we are them,
For certain.

Certainly, certain generations battled differently,
But that doesn’t change the course of dirt,
Unless we can say,

You don’t know what it’s like not to know what it’s like for you,
You don’t know what it’s like not to know what it’s like for me, too.

The blood inside their bodies,
Yours, too, honey,
Passed on from Mommy.

I fear of going there,
In the noisy space inside my head,
For fear is laughing at me,
And the histories I hold there,
But maybe not,
Maybe giggles slip in with light,
They say, “The candle burning bright,”
Different stories, different wives,
Yours and mine,
What’s the difference?
But over time, there’s a way to carry on,
There are those who hold our arms,
In kindness,
And back,
Too much sadness,
Not from the badness,
Plenty love around,
Thank goodness.

You don’t know what it’s like not to know what it’s like for you,
You don’t know what it’s like not to know what it’s like for me, too.

I don’t need to leave,
I’ve got reasons to stay.
Oh the blood inside their bodies.

Can’t concentrate with all the noise?
Can you know it’s okay to leave the noise?

Dan Jones

Author Dan Jones

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