A Poem by T

Worn, a bit ragged inside
like a childs cherished belonging
held tightly through the rough times
no longer bright and shiny

Weathered, I come to you
bringing my tattered soul
and my tired sighs
and shattered beliefs

Valued, you see the beauty
in things i've forgotten
in a soul that still shines
beneath the burden of self I carry

Reborn, now you've found me
taken me down from the attic of stored collections
lost and alone in the dark
and made me real

© 2007 Tmiller
the following is from the velveteen rabbit (children's book)
Real isn't how you are made," said the Skin Horse. "It's a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become Real."

"Does it hurt?" asked the Rabbit.

"Sometimes," said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful. "When you are Real you don't mind being hurt."

"Does it happen all at once, like being wound up," he asked, "or bit by bit?"

"It doesn't happen all at once," said the Skin Horse. "You become. It takes a long time. That's why it doesn't happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don't matter at all, because once you are Real you can't be ugly, except to people who don't understand."

© 2008 T

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It plays out well, quite well. It is not overcomplicated. It is not oversimplified. It is a story many have heard, but it is not told in way that is stale. It is told in a way that it carries its own special variation and heartfelt meaning.

Posted 15 Years Ago

1 of 1 people found this review constructive.

your words are gorgeous,
i really like this piece!

Posted 16 Years Ago

I'd like to have this poem tattooed on the inside of my forearm so I can read it in the morning light and the evening dusk, by candle and lamp. I'd like to read this on good days and read it more so when the days are long. I'd like to read in it the rain waiting on a bus that is not going to show and read it on a hill covered in clover on a lonely afternoon. When I am worn and weathered, I'd like to look down and know I can be valued and reborn. I wish I could tell you how powerful this poem is, how it gives hope and offers a hand. Wonderful work T.

Posted 16 Years Ago

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3 Reviews
Added on May 9, 2008
Last Updated on August 9, 2008




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