Happy Times

by: Author Unknown,

Then the wound is healed, so to speak, the stitches are taken out... The scar is still there, and the scar tissue, too. As the years go by, we manage. But the pain is still there, not far below the surface. We see a face that looks familiar, hear a voice that has echoes, see a photograph in someone's album, and it is as though the knife were in the wound again. But not so painfully. And mixed with joy, too. Because remembering a happy time is not all sorrow; it brings back happiness with it.

Tears

by: Author Unknown,

Tears are the proof of life.

Hospital Windows

by: Author Unknown,

Two men, both seriously ill, occupied the same hospital room. One man was allowed to sit up in his bed for an hour each afternoon to help drain the fluid from his lungs. His bed was next to the room's only window. The other man had to spend all his time flat on his back. The men talked for hours on end. They spoke of their wives and families, their homes, their jobs, their involvement in the military service, where they had been on vacation.
And every afternoon when the man in the bed by the window could sit up, he would pass the time by describing to his roommate all the things he could see outside the window. The man in the other bed began to live for those one-hour periods where his world would be broadened and enlivened by all the activity and color of the world outside.
The window overlooked a park with a lovely lake. Ducks and swans played on the water while children sailed their model boats. Young lovers walked arm in arm amidst flowers of every color of the rainbow. Grand old trees graced the landscape, and a fine view of the city skyline could be seen in the distance.
As the man by the window described all this in exquisite detail, the man on the other side of the room would close his eyes and imagine the picturesque scene.
One warm afternoon the man by the window described a parade passing by. Although the other man couldn't hear the band - he could see it in his mind's eye as the gentleman by the window portrayed it with descriptive words. Days and weeks passed.
One morning, the day nurse arrived to bring water for their baths only to find the lifeless body of the man by the window, who had died peacefully in his sleep. She was saddened and called the hospital attendants to take the body away. As soon as it seemed appropriate, the other man asked if he could be moved next to the window. The nurse was happy to make the switch, and after making sure he was comfortable, she left him alone. Slowly, painfully, he propped himself up on one elbow to take his first look at the world outside. Finally, he would have the joy of seeing it for himself. He strained to slowly turn to look out the window beside the bed.
It faced a blank wall. The man asked the nurse what could have compelled his deceased roommate who had described such wonderful things outside this window. The nurse responded that the man was blind and could not even see the wall. She said, "Perhaps he just wanted to encourage you."

Flowers on the Bus

by: Author Unknown,

We were a very motley crowd of people who took the bus every day that summer 33 years ago. During the early morning ride from the suburb, we sat drowsily with our collars up to our ears, a cheerless and taciturn bunch.
One of the passengers was a small grey man who took the bus to the centre for senior citizens every morning. He walked with a stoop and a sad look on his face when he, with some difficulty, boarded the bus and sat down alone behind the driver. No one ever paid very much attention to him.
Then one July morning he said good morning to the driver and smiled short-sightedly down through the bus before he sat down. The driver nodded guardedly. The rest of us were silent.
The next day, the old man boarded the bus energetically, smiled and said in a loud voice: "And a very good morning to you all!" Some of us looked up, amazed, and murmured "Good morning," in reply.
The following weeks we were more alert. Our friend was now dressed in a nice old suit and a wide out-of-date tie. The thin hair had been carefully combed. He said good morning to us every day and we gradually began to nod and talk to each other.
One morning he had a bunch of wild flowers in his hand. They were already dangling a little because of the heat. The driver turned around smilingly and asked: "Have you got yourself a girlfriend, Charlie?" We never got to know if his name really was "Charlie", but he nodded shyly and said yes.
The other passengers whistled and clapped at him. Charlie bowed and waved the flowers before he sat down on his seat.
Every morning after that Charlie always brought a flower. Some of the regular passengers began bringing him flowers for his bouquet, gently nudged him and said shyly: "Here." Everyone smiled. The men started to jest about it, talk to each other, and share the newspaper.
The summer went by, and autumn was closing in, when one morning Charlie wasn't waiting at his usual stop. When he wasn't there the next day and the day after that, we started wondering if he was sick or -- hopefully -- on holiday somewhere.
When we came nearer to the centre for senior citizens, one of the passengers asked the driver to wait. We all held our breaths when she went to the door.
Yes, the staff said, they knew who we were talking about. The elderly gentleman was fine, but he hadn't been coming to the centre that week. One of his very close friends had died at the weekend. They expected him back on Monday. How silent we were the rest of the way to work.
The next Monday Charlie was waiting at the stop, stooping a bit more, a little bit more grey, and without a tie. He seemed to have shrinked again. Inside the bus was a silence akin to that in a church. Even though no one had talked about it, all those of us, who he had made such an impression on that summer, sat with our eyes filled with tears and a bunch of wild flowers in our hands.

A Tear to the Eye

by: Author Unknown,

Barbara was driving her six-year-old son, Benjamin, to his piano lesson.
They were late, and Barbara was beginning to think she should have cancelled it. There was always so much to do, and Barbara, a night-duty nurse at the local hospital, had recently worked extra shifts.
She was tired. The sleet storm and icy roads added to her tension. Maybe she should turn the car around.
"Mom!" Ben cried. "Look!" Just ahead, a car had lost control on a patch of ice. As Barbara tapped the brakes, the other car spun wildly rolled over, then crashed sideways into a telephone pole.
Barbara pulled over, skidded to a stop and threw open her door. Thank goodness she was a nurse - she might be able to help these unfortunate passengers.
Then she paused. What about Ben? She couldn't take him with her. Little boys shouldn't see scenes like the one she anticipated. But was it safe to leave him alone? What if their car were hit from behind?
For a brief moment Barbara considered going on her way. Someone else was sure to come along. No! "Ben, honey, promise me you'll stay in the car!"
"I will, Mommy," he said as she ran, slipping and sliding toward the crash site. It was worse than she'd feared. Two girls of high school age are in the car. One, the blonde on the passenger side, was dead, killed on impact.
The driver, however was still breathing. She was unconscious and pinned in the wreckage. Barbara quickly applied pressure to the wound in the teenager's head while her practiced eye catalogued the other injuries. A broken leg, maybe two, along with probable internal bleeding. But if help came soon, the girl would live.
A trucker had pulled up and was calling for help on his cellular phone. Soon Barbara heard the ambulance sirens. A few moments later she surrendered her lonely post to rescue workers.
"Good job," one said as he examined the driver's wounds. "You probably saved her life, ma'am." Perhaps.
But as Barbara walked back to her car a feeling of sadness overwhelmed her, especially for the family of the girl who had died. Their lives would never be the same. Oh God, why do such things have to happen?
Slowly Barbara opened her car door. What should she tell Benjamin? He was staring at the crash site, his blue eyes huge. "Mom," he whispered, "did you see it?"
"See what, Honey?" she asked.
"The angel, Mom! He came down from the sky while you were running to the car. And he opened the door, and he took that girl out."
Barbara's eyes filled with tears. "Which door, Ben?"
"The passenger side. He took the girl's hand, and they floated up to Heaven together"
"What about the driver?"
Ben shrugged. "I didn't see anyone else."
Later, Barbara was able to meet the families of the victims. They expressed their gratitude for the help she had provided. Barbara was able to give them something more - Ben's vision.
There was no way he could have known what happened to either of the passengers. Nor could the passenger door have been opened; Barbara had seen its tangle of immovable steel herself. Yet Ben's account brought consolation to a grieving family. Their daughter was safe in Heaven. And they would see her again.

All the Time in the World . .

by: Author Unknown,

While at the park one day, a woman sat down next to a man on a bench near a playground. "That's my son over there," she said, pointing to a little boy in a red sweater who was gliding down the slide.
"He's a fine looking boy," the man said. "That's my son on the swing in the blue sweater." Then, looking at his watch, he called to his son. "What do you say we go, Todd?"
Todd pleaded, "Just five more minutes, Dad. Please? Just five more minutes." The man nodded and Todd continued to swing to his heart's content.
Minutes passed and the father stood and called again to his son. "Time to go now?"
Again Todd pleaded, "Five more minutes, Dad. Just five more minutes." The man smiled and said, "Okay."
"My, you certainly are a patient father," the woman responded.
The man smiled and then said, "My older son Tommy was killed by a drunk driver last year while he was riding his bike near here. I never spent much time with Tommy and now I'd give anything for just five more minutes with him. I've vowed not to make the same mistake with Todd.
"He thinks he has five more minutes to swing. The truth is . . . I get five more minutes to watch him play."

Inhumanity

by: Author Unknown,

Man's inhumanity to man

War, rape, violence, murder

assault and abuse

Voices crying in the night

ravaged lands and people

So many left wanting

no wonder people join

in uprising and rebellion

People protest against war

yet these same people

ignore the plight of those

who are forced to take up guns

and fight

The children cry yet are

taught to hate

The adults weep

at hardships long endured

The cupboards are bare

and the earth is scorched

the child living in fear

of the next slap

or rough fondling in the

darkened room under

the blankets

The man begging

on the street corner

ignored by the prosperous

join in uprising

and rebellion

PRISON WALLS

by: Author Unknown,

I'm in prison

jail, incarcerated

No, not with three brick

walls and one

of iron bars

but prison nevertheless

I can walk around, go where I want

I could travel the world

You can't see the walls

and you don't have to sign in

to see me, or get frisked

for security reasons

But I'm still in prison

the prison of the mind

I know the dimensions

yes I've paced it off

God, I've been here long enough

The walls are high and strong

but not made of anything

that man can physically breakthrough

they're made of fear and betrayal

My cell is cluttered, furnished with

anger, hate, responsibility, unrequited love,

lack of trust, but the need to belong

fights against the need to be free

the need to be me

Oh, I can see the outside world

through my small window

and sometimes what I see makes

me feel safe in prison

sometimes the walls start to crumble

and I reach out to grasp the hand waiting

but then something happens to stop me

and the walls become as thick as a mountain

Right now the walls are growing wider, stronger, thicker

endless.

The River Runs

by: Author Unknown,

The river of my life runs

strong and deep

but throughout it's course

it has taken on many colours and hues

The river runs pink

when I was born

I was small, wrinkled and pink

The river runs orange

for the happiest and brightest

times of my life

The river runs green

for the times I was

sick and needed to be nursed

The river runs yellow

all the times I was scared

not wanting to be alone

The river runs yellow

so many times I cringed

and cowered at your touch

The river runs blue

since the time a coldness

has entered my soul

The river runs red

for the anger that courses

through my being

The river runs black

hatred for you

who betrayed my trust

The river runs

The river runs a rainbow

SURRENDERING TO PAIN

by: Author Unknown,

I laughed 'til I cried

cried, cried

with no one to hold me

and calm me

My anger burned

a hole in my soul

My sadness

the sound of my tears

My sobs rendered me helpless

as I burrowed down to that

deep place inside of me

where raw emotions hide

I cried for the hurt,

the pain and the fear

and a childhood lost

I cried for dignity undone

and innocence long forgotten

I cried for the questioning silences

and the doubt filled eyes

I cried because I felt so forsaken

the loneliness nesting

deep in my heart

I cried so loud yet

I was not heard

The kind of crying

that makes others uncomfortable

because the pain is

all too obvious

yet crying seemed awoefully inadequate

way to voice such

powerful emotions

With only bloodshot eyes

and a tear stained face

to show that moments

before my body racked

with tremors

I faced the world again

DEPRESSION

by: Author Unknown,

Maybe if my leg was broken or I was diagnosed with a life threatening illness they would have cared more. It seems that mental illness does not have a place in this world. There are already too many 'freaks' suffering from it, one in five Australians in fact. Sure the physical symptoms of depression may not kill me, but the emotional ones may.

I know that I can be stronger and fight my depression, I want an education and a career, I never wanted to be a dropout. Finding the motivation to brush my teeth is a struggle, so you can imagine the pain I feel when people called me a faker. The inner sadness that engulfs me is phenomenal. I wouldn't wish it upon my worst enemy. Yet I would like to see some of the people who ridiculed me go through a fraction of what I have been through for a second and see how they would fight it.
I like everybody else, has had problems in my life. My parents separating when I was young. I was followed home from school one day and bashed because some girls didn't like me. I've suffered the usual bitchiness and name calling. The saying 'sticks and stones may break my bone but words will never hurt me' is so wrong. Being called a whore or slut while still being a virgin has left emotional scars that feel like they will be with me forever. A simple threat sends me into a hysterical state. While physical scars heal, emotional ones are there to haunt you for life. Some people I have considered my 'best friends' have betrayed me. Many haven't called the whole time I have been sick. I'm forgotten now.
I'm extremely lucky to have a caring and understanding family as well as a boyfriend who would do anything to see me happy. I love them all so much. Unfortunately you hurt the ones you love most. Your pain becomes directed at them and they cope the blame for all the shit the world has dealed out to you. I never wanted to hurt them. I hope they can forgive me.
This was written during the darkest times of my depression. Three suicide attempts followed and my family helped me through them. I am now a happy 17 year old doing my HS. The time of depression seems like a bad nightmare. I still can't believe what I went through and survived. There is always hope, for anyone. There is always someone there to listen.