Poetry That Speaks Of Love Lost 3
I wrote this poem when I found out Kevin was sick...His time left to live was unsure.
Life After Death
So this is life after death?
Open, loud, unyielding turmoil inside.
A pain so fierce I delay my next breath.
My ache so deep and hard I curl up and hide.
So this is the life I am to lead?
Wounds saturated, ugly, taking nothing away.
Protection neglected as I watch my soul bleed.
Reality in my face regretfully I begin each day.
Tears sting my face as I attempt to clear my head.
Moments pass creating scars sutured far too tight.
I am baffled by our need as we fall into bed.
Pain, pleasure, comfort, passion, each moment right.
So this is life tainted by all that was?
Fear takes hold settling deep in my core.
Opening doors, leaving nothing untouched...lust.
Leaving me almost full, deep in thought, needing more.
So this is life after death?
Death is slowly taking over every part of me.
How will I survive his last breath?
Reality...perhaps soon this will come to pass...help me please!
Written by Becky Jo Gibson June, 2006 ©
Helpful books to deal with terminal illness.
My Sanity Escapes
Sanity escapes me slowly as I walk through each day.
Another day passes since I left my home behind.
Out of necessity I packed and walked away.
Doing all I can to get him out of my mind.
False and one sided emotions spin out of control.
Nothing speaks louder than tangible proof in my face.
My self-control spread thin over a deep hole.
Deception abound heart aches not clear how to live in this space.
Pictures of their twisted coupling come and go at will.
My mind offers little peace, shocked from the mere thought.
Crudely, I seek acceptance, reprieve, the ability not to feel.
Strange cravings for revenge are constantly being fought.
Rage brings permanent solutions that are out of touch.
Death comes in many forms beyond the physical bodies' demise.
I face the monster inside who wants their blood so much.
My battle is on as I strive to know truth, not their lies.
My choices bring a new set of problems to my plate.
Stranded alone where I am free of a familiar face.
My life is packed full of moments too late.
I pray as times passes I will find the right pace.
Written by Becky Jo Gibson October, 2006 ©
