Pamela Pauley-Perreault
WHERE DO I GO FROM HERE?
As we go through life, we’re programmed to give
The best that we can to those we hold dear.
We’re taught to make money, we’re taught to leave wealth,
To those we have left behind.
In our own funny ways, each of us tries,
To leave something of us when we die.
If it’s not made of money, perhaps it’s in art,
Perhaps being smart, perhaps in the talk.
Whatever we leave, most try their best,
To give something of them to the rest.
But when family puts down, scorns all you are,
Or all that you strive to be,
Where do you go? Where do you fit?
Is there anything of you really left?
If you write poems, if you write rhyme,
And if they don’t quite understand,
Is it right that they sneer, is it right they make fun?
Are they really the ones that you’ve raised?
Or are you alone as always it’s been,
And hope that your words have helped those who may care?
For me, I’ll keep on, bury the hurt, pretend that someday they may care.
But deep in my heart, I know it’s a lie, I know that they really don’t care.
It hurts to think they turned out this way, to think only of them and their friends.
Maybe the place for parents to be is put on a shelf in an urn,
When sometimes they say "Gee, I remember the day . . ."
And they put you away when they wish.
Pamela Pauley Perreault ©1996
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WHERE DO I GO FROM HERE?
As we go through life, we’re programmed to give
The best that we can to those we hold dear.
We’re taught to make money, we’re taught to leave wealth,
To those we have left behind.
In our own funny ways, each of us tries,
To leave something of us when we die.
If it’s not made of money, perhaps it’s in art,
Perhaps being smart, perhaps in the talk.
Whatever we leave, most try their best,
To give something of them to the rest.
But when family puts down, scorns all you are,
Or all that you strive to be,
Where do you go? Where do you fit?
Is there anything of you really left?
If you write poems, if you write rhyme,
And if they don’t quite understand,
Is it right that they sneer, is it right they make fun?
Are they really the ones that you’ve raised?
Or are you alone as always it’s been,
And hope that your words have helped those who may care?
For me, I’ll keep on, bury the hurt, pretend that someday they may care.
But deep in my heart, I know it’s a lie, I know that they really don’t care.
It hurts to think they turned out this way, to think only of them and their friends.
Maybe the place for parents to be is put on a shelf in an urn,
When sometimes they say "Gee, I remember the day . . ."
And they put you away when they wish.
Pamela Pauley Perreault ©1996
In our own funny ways, each of us tries, To leave something of us when we die. If it’s not made of money, perhaps it’s in art, Perhaps being smart, perhaps in the talk. Whatever we leave, most try their best, To give something of them to the rest. But when family puts down, scorns all you are, Or all that you strive to be, Where do you go? Where do you fit? Is there anything of you really left?
If you write poems, if you write rhyme, And if they don’t quite understand, Is it right that they sneer, is it right they make fun? Are they really the ones that you’ve raised?
Or are you alone as always it’s been, And hope that your words have helped those who may care? For me, I’ll keep on, bury the hurt, pretend that someday they may care. But deep in my heart, I know it’s a lie, I know that they really don’t care.
It hurts to think they turned out this way, to think only of them and their friends. Maybe the place for parents to be is put on a shelf in an urn, When sometimes they say "Gee, I remember the day . . ." And they put you away when they wish.
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