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Grace Ferguson Poem
Pristine walls surround me, as the beeping hurts my ears.
My vision blurs once more, and within moments I'm wheeled somewhere I can only describe as deafening.
A young girl around my age screams as her mother tries to soothe both the girl and herself - it all makes my head hurt.
"You will only feel a prick," the doctor smiles, but I don't believe him.
I can't believe him.
If he was being sincere, why would the girl scream? Why would her mother weep? Would mine do that too?
I struggle against my father's grasp, but he tries his best to keep me in place while my mother averts her gaze elsewhere.
I take a breath.
I feel a cold liquid course through my veins, trying to suppress my heart rate, but it hurts.
I choke on the medication, gasping for air,
but the more air I inhale, the more it hurts.
I pray to whoever cares to listen that this doesn't kill me, I pray that my newly found condition only hurts me and not those around me.
Years later, I can now say that they didn't listen to my pleas, and instead scoffed.
I now stare at the empty beds surrounding me, as the anaesthetist explains the process, but I don't listen.
How could I listen to her when I know the end is near? It could all be over in a few hours - it was just a matter of whether or not it would be a success.
Hours later I awake once more, meeting the recovery nurses gaze, as I ask the question that had been caught in my throat.
"Was it a success?"
She nods, and tears flood my vision as I picture the faces of my smiling family and friends.
How could years worth of struggle be fixed in a mere few hours? I will never know, but I am grateful that it has came to an end.
I felt as if a war I hadn't began had ended, alongside the torment it caused.
Copyright © Grace Ferguson | Year Posted 2024
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Details |
Grace Ferguson Poem
My Dove, she flies above it all,
In the face of despair she smiles,
Solving all the problems she can.
My Dove, she has deep chocolate hair,
With fair skin,
And eyes like a maze.
My Dove, so many thoughts unspoken,
One glance her way and I'm weak,
Her brains, her beauty, they make her complete.
My Dove, she adores the small things in life,
Like the birds chorus at dawn,
And the laugh of a child.
My Dove, she smells like vanilla perfume,
Her lip gloss is cherry flavoured,
And her dress is covered with daisies.
My Dove shows love through gifts,
Bracelets, painted glasses,
Anything that can be seen as personal.
My heart melts for my Dove,
She lives in my heart Rent free,
I just wish she would look my way,
Even just once.
Copyright © Grace Ferguson | Year Posted 2024
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