This poem is based on personal experience. Someone I respect once told me every family is dysfunctional. At the time, I thought that was a cynical viewpoint, but more recently, I've begun to wonder if it's true. Is there any way to live in close quarters with the same people for years and not exchange some psychological scars? Are there really people out there who don't dread going home sometimes? I've known people who appear to be fairly content with their family lives. If I ever have my own family, I would want to make my home a place where people can come and be loved just the way they are. But is it possible? Does anybody love anybody for who they really are, and not just for what benefits they can provide? Witness this: the idealist is weak and malnourished, but not quite dead yet.
When those we’re told should love us best,
Unflinching, cause the greatest pain;
When arms in which we fall to rest
Have dropped us into fear and shame;
We wonder, dread, and long to know
If, on a crash course with the ground,
Their hands would form a net below
Or let us go without a sound.
At times, in strength, we stand and seek
For friends whose care can keep us sane,
But crouch and hide when we feel weak
And crave the love without the pain.