We curse.
Such a life, my sweet,
To be as a fixture upon a lace doily,
A centerpiece, waiting to be gazed at
Through the eyes of someone who might
See your world, hear your heart, touch your soul.
Such a life, my sweet,
Waking up every morning,
The gurgle of drainage down a silicone tube
To accompany the first glimpse of daylight,
The taste of toothpaste,
Replaces morning coffee,
And though you can smell its aroma
As it floats upstairs,
No one even knows you are aware.
Sounds of your Dad's leather workboots,
I know you can hear,
Tapping on an oak floorboard,
They fade into memories,
A seemingly otherworld away
From the morning enema about to call on you,
You know, that one you swore you never wanted?
You never thought they'd be so cruel, I know,
The words you wrote were jumbled and twisted,
Even with clear instructions listed.
Your eyes burn through my soul
Like a welding torch,
Because I know you are there, aware,
And if you had said this life
Were all you had ever dreamed of,
Or hoped for,
We could rejoice that you are alive,
No one would have to pretend
They were happy buying 50 adult diapers a week.
Wiping the drool from lips
That kissed mine so tenderly on hot summer nights,
Would not produce the warm rush of shame that it does.
The frigid glares of judgement
By onlookers are like daggers.
Their thoughts pierce through,
And shatter the glass walls
Of our new home named "denial".
So we curse.
We curse the shattered shards we trample under foot,
We curse the time we spend in front of the mirror.
We curse the smile worn in vain,
And smothered in invisible pain,
That we don so shamelessly to greet you daily,
And we choke on every lie that slips through
This carefully orchestrated facade
That screams to be seen for what it is.
We curse the night,
Because sleep was something
That died when the flatline disappeared,
When they told us this is what "alive" is.
We curse the tubes,
We curse the sound of breathing monitors.
We curse wheelchairs,
And doctor's offices,
We curse every dream we ever shared,
Every challenge we ever dared,
The rising sun, the day that's done,
The fun, the laughter, the tears.
We curse ourselves.
We curse the thousands of dollars
Our suffering is making
For others' taking
As your body contorts,
Into nothing more than a fragile shell.
It is like we all
At the same time,
Arrived
In hell.
2015 ©
omg!!
amazing write!! i was utterly convinced it was first hand, real. and i HAVE been there (blessedly not for very long). well done!!!!!
Oh my poison My Poison My Poison !!!!!!
When are you goin to kill me
You are bitter yet sweet
But I don't like tuh meet
Till I have muh own feet
Come hell come heaven
Some more yeast needed
To make bread leven (?)
©bishu
I've Seen & Empathized
A friend went through chemo then radiation therapy, then died. It is hard to watch one once vital succumb to the ravages of disease. You do what is required of you for the sake of love. ~allets~
most difficult
So sorry your friend didn't make it. That is also a most difficult situation. I think the inspiration for this one stemmed mostly from the way that living wills are too often ignored. After all, if anyone is going to sue the doctor or the facility for a wrongful deathit will not be the patient. It will be the family members left. But the agony of reaching acceptance amongst families is what I see as the most destructive of all.
...and he asked her, "do you write poetry? Because I feel as if I am the ink that flows from your quill."
"No", she replied, "but I have experienced it. "
Bouncing Back
from the death of a close loved one is really really hard. I tamed down some relatives who wanted to sue - actually they had cause, but it is destructive. No insurance policy causes a lot of cursing. On top of grief, debt, the need to go back to work and help family members. It's tough especially when you are also grieving. I wish you peace and productivity in all you do -Allets-
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Re-Read
Scraped out--emptied. Sudden deaths are merciful, dying over years corrodes what makes us want the future. The word despair is insufficient, the words grief or sorrow miss the emotions we have not invented words for yet. Tears perhaps as simile: she is as insubstantial as a tear.
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This poem says the unsayable.
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Stella Crews
06-25-16
358a
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