An Awkward Collection Of Poems About Death #3

 

The thing about loss
Is that it didn’t hit me
When it happened.
I didn’t feel loss.
Not when I got the call.
Not when I attended our last party together
Everyone wearing black.
Her favourite colour.
Not when there were two bodies
and only one person
that last time I saw her.
Pale.
No, I didn’t feel loss.
I felt everyone else’s loss
And made it my own.
A vacancy inside me
Filled with pain
not of my own doing.
And that made it worse.

It was three days later
I was checking my phone
And I didn’t see her name
Pop up at the crank of dawn.
She wasn’t on my recents
Only recently passed.
The vacancy started to fill up
With the deafening sound of absence.

A week later I was at a book store
I found a book with chapters named
Only in odd numbers.
She was an odd little one.
She would have liked it.
I almost bought the book for her.

Thirty one days later
That movie she wanted to see
Came out.
I went alone.

It’s just one never-ending monotone.
Sometimes you forget she’s gone.
She’s still there, you know.
Writing, eating, breathing.
Am I lying to myself or is time lying to me?
And my ears pick up the monotone again.
A frustration.
Of so much to say
But when you turn the recorder on
You realise you have nothing to record.
Succumb to the monotone.

A year and a half later
I shift to a new city
Unloading the pieces of my life.
I find a stone.
Our hike up the mountain.
When she told me
She’d move mountains for me.
And suddenly I feel selfish.
Because I had not thought of her
For a year.

The vacancy never really gets filled.
The pain just numbs until
You trick yourself into believing
You are as you were.
Whole.
Without loss.
With nothing to find.

I don’t think I’ll ever stop looking.

Poisoned by Lead(ers)

There was a girl,
Born with the world In her hands,
but she didn’t share
No she couldn’t care.

And this prodigious girl
Knew from the start,
Blessed with beauty and brains,
she was Destined for fortune and fame.

The girl knew she was destined
To lead us poor souls, restless
To make it to the top
It was her birthright, of course.

Who else would take the reins,
The rest were all too plain.
“The mortals should be honoured
To have me as their ‘mother’.”

However, some were not convinced,
And she determined them to be minced.
She demanded their respect.
How dare they object?

So she sent out a message,
To all the non believers,
And this is is the response
Of one such receiver:

I got a message the other day
From someone with too much to say
Told me I should make them my leader
And who am I? A bottom feeder?

Oh my dear sweet innocent ‘leader’
Let me tell you why I’m not a believer.
Why should I stand by you?
Became you tell me to?

My leader won’t ask for my respect.
That’s something for me to accept
Don’t try to buy my reverence,
It is not your defence.

There are many that proclaim,
“You are not worthy of such fame.
Entitlement is not an accomplishment,
With nothing to your name, you’ll repent.”

So my dear sweet child,
The world is rarely so mild.
Be ready for a rebellion,
For we, the followers, will be jubilant.