To My Father

Dear Appa,

 

You’re the one who can see the way words move

and yet to you, those words are not valuable.

Sacred.

But worth nothing.

For me, words are everything.

Builders of life, blades of ink.

And you gave them to me.

So thank you.

For showing me what words become:

green famished caterpillars,

a love that could span solar systems.

You took me to these worlds.

Then taught me to find them:

a boy with a jagged scar,

a girl’s secluded plot of life.

They were mine, my worlds.

And I loved them.

Still love them.

So let me build them.

Let me make a world.

Let me make you a world.

I know that you don’t think a world is worth money.

But worth is not what glitters.

And you taught me that too.

I’ll remember that.

I’ll let words move me.

I’ll show you a World.

 

I know that you were the one who could see words move

but now so can I.

 

So thank you.

Neya

This poem is about: 
Me
My family

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