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Dedicated to a warrior father with calloused hands.
He whistles sad love songs, in order to fall asleep,
secret comforts to his heartbreaks of a broken home.
never held my hands,
they define strength,child
comfort is need, desire is for the weak,
the only time you will ever offer your hands
is when you
know you're of great worth.
I still will sigh. then. now.
He, a warrior father
drowns in sorrow in his sleep,he must.
His face, beaten down
from years of being a bastard's son.
i saw him mourn for the first time.
of endless tragedies that still make his nose bleeds,
but my father,
while walking me down his father's old dynasty
began to tell me childhood stories
child, no matter how much you hurt,you never forget where you're from and how much you're worth.
a gold mountain's worth.
Also by Davina Wan
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