It was long his dream,
To write the history.
He tried once,
So long ago.
The journals in high school.
The letters to his children.
They were too complete,
in his brokeness.
How to help you to luv them,
He saught.
Then comes the poetry.
Poetry is broken, and incomplete.
This is the blessing, and a way, to show,
The luv.
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I love to collect thoughts. I would love to collect some of yours, if they are mindful and respectable.