The Pain of Losing Someone (Poem)

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On the cold, hard, wooden pew sat she,

Musty air filling her lungs.

Watery flames dancing sombrely in the corner of her eye.

The waterfall of tears streamed down her cheeks,

In her quavering hands she held a sobbing head.

Clear to the eye, her pain was irreversible.

Removing her hands from her head she gazed

Mumbling a hurting, rhetorical question to the monument ahead.

Downwards her head fell, into the safety of the hands.

And sadly the crying cycle began again

Untitled. (poem)

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I hear your voice

I feel you sigh

And like the sand beneath my feet

You drift away with the tide.

You hear me cry

You feel me break

And with the moon in the midnight sky

There you fade into the new day.

And I cry endless rivers

Hoping to reach the sea.

And I drown in the floods of tears

Knowing you’re not coming back to me.

If there were time enough (Poem/Sonnet)

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If there were time enough, I might tell you

How the howling night becomes scorching day

How the fresh breeze sighs, if only you knew

Thunder and lightening when Gods are at play.

Why Flora and Fauna chose Spring to sow

Why Ceres tends these small tendrils to bloom

Where the hard-earned fruits of young Summer go,

Before the harsh gales of old Winter loom.

And yet, should we squander what little time

On pondering, on which we know not?

Shall we spend our dying days on this climb,

Or on some nonsense expend our last thought?

Should be spend on this out entire lives through?

If there were time enough, I might tell you.

Rest.

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“What is wrong with me?” I asked myself, as I sat staring into a freshly brewed cup of tea.

“What is wrong with me?” Silence echoed through as my heart throbbed harder than before. It’s horrible feeling both broken but resilient. To want to fall apart but be unable to.

It took me until this morning to be able to come up with some sort of answer to that question that haunted my thoughts. Or maybe with reflection, that question has been floating around years and it’s taken longer to come to the most accurate conclusion. The conclusion that there is nothing wrong with me. Yes, there are things that I have done “wrong”, or more importantly, I could have dealt with better. I’ve gone down some paths I wish I hadn’t and I have faced, and continue to face a lot of demons on my own. Over the years I have simply done what I thought to be my best with the sole intention of making it through the tough times. And just maybe, in hindsight, that should be praised.

I have so much to work on. The task is somewhat overwhelming and terrifying because I do not know what the end result looks like. I don’t even know if there is an end result to be found. However, I’m too drained, physically, mentally and emotionally, to be keeping myself down, and blaming myself for all the loss and grief and pain I have come across in my life.

At this precise moment in time I am finding myself in a time of grief and confusion. I lie in bed feeling wholeheartedly responsible for my child not having other siblings, sobbing at that relationship I have potentially lost for my daughter. I lie in bed aching for me from the past, that I lost but never gave proper thought to. I find myself so often living in the should haves or the what ifs, rather than being able to take the loss, the heartache, the pain and the emptiness for what it is, and embrace it and learn from it. And now I am seeing the pattern that I fall into.

I am learning that my first step to healing, my first step to giving myself that grace, is to allow myself to slow down. To rest. Even if it is just for a mere moment. Rest.

The challenge I face is that I have to put myself first and find a way to hold myself in a position of love and care, not of blame and hatred. And so it is up to me to make that change. And I am so resolved to do just that. I owe it to the people in my life. I owe that to myself

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And then last night happened. And the floor below my feet, gave way. I had been at a theatre performance, where out of nowhere an attempted rape scene was infront of our eyes.  And it hit me.  Instantly I froze. I just gazed onwards, trapped.  My shoulders tense, my facial expression locked.  My cheeks burning up, and my eyes stinging.  Momentarily, I was taken out of the moment, by my husbands hand tightening in mine, as he leaned in closer.  Gratefully, that seemed to have been enough to unfreeze me, and as the tears cascaded down my cheeks, overcome with embarrassment, disappointment, and anxiety, I rushed out of a busy theatre, to the toilets, where I sat and tried to catch a breath and not be sick.

 

She had long mousey brown hair, and a laugh that was infectious to those she would share it with.  Despite being a shy and quiet person, she knew how to embrace the pretence of confidence and being self-assured.  She was just a regular girl, finishing up high school and looking forward to the summer ahead.  Trembling inside at the changes that would come to be, as futures and careers paths had to be started, yet the trembling was quietened by this zest for embracing the time to come and being spectacular at everything possible.

And then that night happened. Where people took what wasn’t theirs to take, and almost instantaneously that girl faded into the night too.

Slumped in the square. (Poem)

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Slumped in the square,

Sat the man with the can in his hand.

A solitary half-made man, whose legs had forgotten to grow.

One eye higher than the other

Up turned ears, listening to the bustle of the villagers

Moving in and out of sound.

 

People trickled by in their finery,

Boys with the golden-cat eyes

Fiercely jeering and swearing and prodding in their Sunday best.

But keeping their distance, lest he move

The lopsided grin leeked

Spittle, as the boys aimed

One last kick.

Hollowly a coin clatters into the can

Payment for humouring the boys.

 

Steeple begins to sound, procession streams onward

Straining, struggling dragging himself up and ambles out of the square.

The Red Sea of villagers ripple around him lest they make contact.

Heaven forbid, catch something from this mockery

of God’s image.

Stragglers climb up steep steps.  The heavy door closes and sucks in the sound.

 

With small uncertain steps, he returns to the square

And resumes position.

A bag of bread grasped in his fist.

Soaked in the Sabbath sunlight, he scatters the grain of truth.

And, with a voice sweet as a childs, coaxes the birds.

How clever of the priest to tell of the suffering of His Son.

And convienently forget about the most worthy one.

Thoughts

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After spending the past few weeks, typing…thinking…typing…and then furiously deleting what I had planned in saying, I have decided that whatever I type tonight, will actually remain undeleted. For some unbeknown reason, the recent coverage of the Trump obscenities have struck me with a compelling feeling to speak out and yet at the same time, it has silenced me. And it was a feeling of heavy familiarity, yet I could not quite place where or why. And then today it hit me. This feeling takes me back years ago to that night. A night where I still can not bring myself to fully speak of what happened. It sits there, suffocating in my throat, waiting to be spoken. But I can’t. And it got me to thinking that regardless to what extent the Trump ‘locker room chat’ is fact, it’s the actions and opinions of people like Trump that in one fell swoop can make us want to rise up and speak out, tell our accounts of how cruel people can be. Not only the attackers, but the non-believers, the sympathisers, the ones who think it is perfectly fine to make passing comments and jokes about any type of assault, sexual assault and rape. Yet at the same time can make those survivors want to stay quiet. There is a reason why these crimes are not spoken of and reported in as mass a number as they should be. The reasons have been plastered all over the news, and social media for weeks now. Where there is one person being supportive, there is another being the complete opposite. Trump said that those who came forward, were only in it for ‘fame’. Two words that rhyme come to mind for me, that I think most survivors of these truly horrid crimes would associate with it, is the feeling of shame and blame. Neither of which is right. It’s truly sickening to have read and seen what has gone on in the US Presidential race these past few weeks. It makes me despair at the world and those who think this way of behaving is perfectly acceptable. What does that teach the future generation? How can anyone be supporting someone who thinks and acts like that?  My head is reeling. My stomach churning.