Every poet need a haven to evoke
And here you are my metaphor .
The hard in trying to ignore
I'm ended up loving you more .
It hurts to see you with someone else
Maybe I've loved you too much I guess .
The only reason I cried in my prayers is you
And destiny left me alone without any clue .
I cried and cried and asked , why I fell in love ?
Even my soul begs to escape from this now.
Grief is not the body in the earth;
it is what happens to the room afterward.
A cup remains beside the sink.
Someone's coat survives the winter.
The ordinary continues
with an almost offensive competence.
Here is the absurdity:
we are forced to carry a thing that has no mass.
An empty chair becomes heavier with years.
A number remains in the phone
long after there is anyone left
who could answer it.
We make a sanctuary of the wound
because pain becomes evidence.
For a while, suffering is the closest thing
we have to touching them.
To hurt less feels dangerous,
as though love itself
might be measured by what continues to hurt.
Then comes the quieter loss.
You realize you are no longer only mourning them;
you are mourning your own failing capacity
to mourn them as you once did.
Your lungs adapt, day by day, to the empty air.
You laugh without guilt.
An afternoon passes without remembering.
And this is what no one warns you about:
one day their absence becomes familiar.
Not smaller.
Not repaired.
Familiar.
You would give anything
to be devastated again
with the precision
of the first morning.
Shouting without reason
Burning voices that crackles
With horse wisp of a growl
In pain without dsicription
Hollow feeling of regret
Short spout of unreasoning
Stop without going
Shattering sentence
No words that describes
The pouting with snarling
Couping without balance
Grip with a fist with fury
A smile looks of a cringe
Speaking with loudness
Expression looks unsure
This anger has voice
She’s got a soul of summer
And regret-filled eyes.
She needs love like her bones need her skin,
Like they’d crack and splinter and snap
Inside her ribs
from the pounding of her lonely heart.
She looks out her window to the
dark, gray winter
and prays that the heat outside
would match the warmth in her heart.
She wishes on unmoving stars
And tries not to think about the boy
That she would have opened a vein for
Last May.
She sees the sun peering through the trees above,
And the trees below the big, bright sky.
She hears turtle doves and smells citrus
And wonders how anyone could think
That god is a man.
The ocean breeze can’t reach her here.
There is no wind, no sun.
The salt and sand and sweet green grass
Stick to her elbows and knees
And she’s smiling so much it hurts.
She hopes the summer can see her grief
And waits patiently for her to
Return with open arms.
The scars of autumn and the
Pain of winter and the
Texts she can never bring herself to delete
Will stay with her.
But they’ll be warmer.
It’s beautiful outside
And she’s alone in her room
Wondering if the summer misses her, too
In colors he bloomed, with a big red nose,
He chose the job where laughter grows.
There he stood in rounded boots,
With a grin of mischief and playful hoots.
Dressed like a child, his costume loose,
A floppy hat, a bright jumpsuit.
Then came the rain--it cleared the crowd,
While the magician watched, silent and proud.
And through the downpour, something broke through
A glimpse of the man, not masked, but true.
His smile turned down, a burdened frown,
Grief wrapped tight in his circus gown.
He vanished with no tear, no trace,
Just silence held in a painted face.
He ends his shift, no cheers, no song,
As a joker he smiled, as a joker he belonged
If only I knew
What all this would do
I never meant
To be broke and bent
I try and try
But its never enough
And just like that
I call their bluff
Im broken and hurt
Blown off like dirt
But I hide away
The emotions I face
As if put on a hidden display
And the only one who will ever see
Is me
My heart is shattered
My brain is dead
But secretly
I pray and I hope
That maybe this slope
Will come to an end
Maybe one day my heart will mend
But the scars still remain
And so does the pain
I whisper my fears
But no one can hear
So now Im trapped in a cycle
Of blood, hurt, and tears.
Pitter-Patter, Pitter-Patter, the sound of little feet, though you are lost, I know you are not, My baby we'll meet again, my heart was broken for you, I'm sulking the child I'll never meet, pitter-patter, pitter-patter the sound of an angels feet, pitter-Patter pitter-patter, my Baby one day ill meet.
My dad brought home this cheese once.
I hated it. It reeked.
Everyone enjoyed it except me.
It's been five years now. He still brings this cheese home.
I’ve started to use it in my dips.
It tastes better when it’s drowning in mayo and spinach.
I walked in and I could smell it.
Tired after work, I grab a knife.
Hmm. Doesn’t taste bad.
As we walk back from the funeral, I can smell the cheese he used to bring home.
So, I head over to the supermarket and grab a chunk.
My daughter hates it. Said it reeked
I smiled.
Sometimes for no apparent rhyme or reason
A sort of sinking feeling dampens the mind and heart
Not exactly, but somewhat similar to a nervous breakdown
Everything appears twisted, strangulated, and distorted
Extra show of kindness sometimes turns painful and killing
Sadness soon turns into the hysterical sobs
Turning the victim into a grief-stricken wretch
The face is an index to mind, the principle same for pure and sinner
Oh, in what words shall I describe the comfort
I receive on resting my head on her shoulder
No one else but we shall be hard on ourselves
Future will unmistakably depend on how we amend ourselves
Wholehearted dedication and certainly
Not the astrological predictions will shape the future
The taste of the pudding is in eating
Certainly not in the smell of the sweeteners
The Rocky Road.
.
The path that life has given me
Is a rocky uneven winding road
With many steep hill to climb
And I carry such a heavy load
A cruel unforgiving wind
Often stops me moving forward
Upon my painful unpleasant track
Battered and bruised sand lashed
I aim for home always alone
But get blown back
Disheartened disillusioned
Trapped fearful
Like a struggling cat in a sack
Drowning in melancholy.
.
Peter Dome©2020.
She weeps, tears of sadness...anger...confusion and pain.
All the good in her had sprang from the love given to her by her mother, not by birth but by choice.
Now mother had left the earth, and she questioned her identity. Never fitting into predestined labels of grandchild...or child.
How obvious it was now, she would fight to keep the good alive...fight like never before.
She takes a breath, with every intention of moving forward only to find she crumbles.
Tears soak the ground causing it to swallow her, slowly, so damn slowly.
She sighs...
she stops fighting..
she cannot go on...
She is no more...or was she ever?
(I found this poem that I wrote in my first year of high school, it brings back memories so
thought I'd post it)
He wears what was once a fine suit. Brown, travel-worn trousers, a white, broken-buttoned
shirt, and leather shoes that look as though a hundred chalky footed mice have scrabbled
over the toes.
He walks in shadows, glaring through red rimmed eyes at the colourful swarm of shoppers.
Their eyes slide over him, uninterested and uncaring;
He has no true friends only a black dog that follows behind him wherever he goes.
He walks with his head down, ignoring everything but the sound of his own scuffed shoes
on the pavement. Memories hang heavy around his shoulders. His moods are violent. Soft,
silent depression breaks into hysterical yelling for no real reason; he grabs at his grey
threaded hair.
The shoppers walk on, pretending he is not there
But Grief walks -
In a once fine suit, through shadow, head down, grief walks.
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