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I am from…


He is from dysfunction.


From a house in a constant state of destruction.


From an antique redwood desk, unrecognizable,
under stacks of forgotten bills and worries.
From a beautiful couch hidden under ancient editions of the New York Times,
the Post and the Chronicle.

He is from excess.
And never having enough.
From fridges hoarded with unknown miscellaneousess,
probably expired.

He is my father.

He is a journalist.
A man who ends every day,
with a shirt soaked in worries.

He lives his life with CNN on in the background.
He is always anxious.
He is a journalist.
And he is outstanding.

He is the sweetest man I’ve ever known.
A man of good intentions,
that almost never work out.
The intentions are rarely recognized.
The outcomes always overanalyzed.
And overscreamed.
He has become the house he grew up in.
And we give him hell for it.

I am from him.
I am from not always being the best daughter.
From trying to change that daily.
And failing;
daily.

I am from too high expectations,
And being disappointed.
I am from him,
And we are a family.





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