Papa, Fix This—My Heart Hurts
I come to you, a trembling child of dusk,
with a wound that beats louder than any drum.
Your hands—once the scaffolding of my world—
now seem too far, too faded, like ghosts in the attic.
The ache sits beneath my ribs, a storm‑tossed tide,
each breath a gasp for the tide‑line of your voice.
“Fix this,” I whisper, the words wobbling on a rope,
the rope that once carried me from the highest swing
to the safety of your steady palm.
I remember the iron scent of gasoline
when you taught me how to mend a broken bike,
how you’d twist a wrench, and the metal sang—
a hymn of repair, of things set right again.
Now the metal is my heart, rusted by midnight doubts,
its gears grinding in a rhythm that knows no rest.
I lay it before you, raw and trembling,
awaiting the simple magic of your touch.
You, Papa, are the echo of every lullaby,
the steady hum of a house at night,
the compass that points home when I’m lost
in the labyrinth of my own restless thoughts.
If I could, I’d stitch the torn seams of my chest
with the thread of your laugh, the fabric of your patience,
and sew the gaps where sorrow seeps through.
But I am small, and the wound is vast—
so I call, I plead, I beg: “Fix this, Papa.”
May your eyes find the crack, your hands find the knot,
your voice be the balm that steadies my pulse.
May the echo of your “It’ll be alright,”
float like a lantern over the dark water,
and carry me, one gentle breath at a time,
back to the shore where my heart can rest,
where love is the medicine, and you—
the healer whose name is whispered in every sigh.
In the quiet after the storm, I will hear—
the soft thrum of a heart that’s finally mended.
-
Author:
Friendship (
Offline) - Published: March 5th, 2026 17:24
- Comment from author about the poem: I've been battling illness, which is why I've been absent. My poem takes me back to my childhood when my loving grandfather, Papa, would care for me during my sickness. As I penned this poem, thoughts of Papa filled my heart, especially now when being unwell makes me feel emotionally drained and under the weather.
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 20
- Users favorite of this poem: Friendship, Tristan Robert Lange
Offline)
Comments7
This is quite beautiful.Filled with nostalgia.Good old Papa was able to fix most things.It could be a metaphor for JC as well.Just sayin.
Thank you
As children in times of trouble we looked to our father to fix our situation now as adults we often wish we could return and have our father fix things for us. Nicely voiced in this poem that speaks out of a child like heart. Well written
You are most welcome
Have you checked out any of Sapien Medicine's audio- videos (free on Youtube)? Hope you get well soon.
Thank you
Good wishes to get well soon F. 🙂 A sensitive write.
Thank you
Very deep and heartwarming. Some pain being reflected here. Well written
Thank you
My friend, this carries such a tender ache…that childlike call for Papa to fix what feels broken inside. The memory of learning to repair the bike is a beautiful anchor for the whole poem. It turns the heart itself into something laid on the workbench…hoping for steady hands to make it right again. A deeply moving and relatable piece. 🌹🖤🙏🕯️🐦⬛
Thank you
Excellent.
To be able to comment and rate this poem, you must be registered. Register here or if you are already registered, login here.