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Poor we find our true road,
born that, hand out from the start
yet no one criticizes babies for
being deadbeats.

Our blood lets us down, some
confused into thinking if I can
just make this biological clique
happy, impress this fifteen or so
people, this nuclear blah blah,

until you set out on your own,
having found God you say to them
“Nah, nah,” and you build friendships,
look up in a good book to see that
a rebellious rabbi once said,

“Family are those who do the will
of God.”

Those who are nice to you,
those who consider your feelings,
are open and loving with you—

your family, nothing to do with
sharing blood or genes, DNA or
the time of day,

We divorce ourselves from the clique,
say hello to the broad highway
to heaven, come with me—

Let’s walk it.

***

Poor we find our true road,
born that, hand out from the start
yet no one criticizes babies for
being deadbeats.

As children we enter heaven, not
as old, complaining adults.

Give to God your life that was never
really yours, and fear not.

Not death, not failure, not truth,
not lies, not the whip, not the cold,
not bitterness, not growing old.

Be the family you want to have
and get married.

To whatever you want to be, be
true, rest and see, relax and know
you never lost by not having a perfect
home, all redeemable on the road
to what you gloriously reap when
properly sowed.

Love

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