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Lucky

Time To Come Home

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A sweet boy of eight

Laughing, and shouting

Fighting battles and winning the war

So tired, but happy

Until Mom calls

Boy, it's time to come home!

You can fight again tomorrow

Come home and rest.

Twenty five years gone

A sweet man grown

Still fighting his battles

So tired, but happy

Until God calls

Boy, it's time to come home!

No need to fight anymore

Come home and rest.

I'm not a poet and don't pretend to be. These thoughts have been in my head. I just wanted to share.

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It's taken reading upon reading upon reading this poem to get to a point where I can actually get through it without choking up. Dammit to hell, I hate crying. :mad:

You don't call yourself a poet, but this piece is wrenchingly beautiful and moving beyond belief. So I think you may be toeing the line there.

Writing is what helps us through the toughest times, and enables us to make something beautiful in the process. Gorgeous stuff, girlfriend. I can only imagine the pain contained in every one of those letters...

Thank you for sharing what I know is intensely personal. We love you.

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You all are very kind. This isn't a good poem, it's just very personal words, that you are reading from my very personal point of view.

My son died of a drug overdose. A battle that began with evil heroin, and let me tell you, that was a fight. But he battled, and won it seemed, 3 years clean and sober. Sometimes attending meetings 5 days a week. After he suffered an injury, painkillers entered the scene. And the battles began again. He fought so very hard, that man knew where every meeting was held in our town. But the enemy was too strong, and he lost that battle. I've thought a lot about how hard he fought, and I've been tortured by those thoughts.

I woke up yesterday dreaming of when he was a little kid, playing war. You know how little boys are. We had a treefort in an old Gum tree, and there was an empty field close to our home. Those were the battlegrounds. He and his friends would toss dirt clods (bombs), or throw gumballs down from the tree, certain kids being the "good" and others being the "bad" guys. Those were happy days for him, so they were happy for me too.

So, knowing how hard he fought, and just how tough this enemy was, I realized that if anything is good about this, it's the simple fact that he doesn't have to fight anymore.

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Carole, I just read your poem. Or your thoughts. Or your feelings. It´s very hard to describe how I feel about it because you´re a friend and we are suffering your pain too.

But you made it. You said it all in a few tender and true lines. Bittersweet, so sad and so strong.

You know things about me because we´ve talked a lot. You know things that I wouldn´t dare to post. So you know I can feel that battle in my own skin.

Thank you for sharing. Thank you for your friendship.

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You know, there was absolutely no reason to tell any of those details, except one. I am so very proud of my kid and the way he fought, and I wanted to express that. I hope he knows it, because I may not have told him often enough.

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