An Origin Story

Whatever it is that defines who I am or who put the bottle in my hand–

whatever it is that nursed the wounds of a broken heart
and weakened knees, and remembered the scars long past their forming.

Whomever it was that first picked me up from being down
near the ground, near in not being sound–

whomever it was, thank you.
For you. I give thanks to you, for you

taught me to stop that ever-long crawl of not growing, not learning,
and to shy far from the ground.

I stand tall from it, instead, ever walking a man made from all of you.
Of you I am from and will always be, so to be me I must take all I can from you
to become the man I am meant to become.

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This Poems Story

A poem of homage to guardian figures.