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Carmen
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- Interests:
- Poetry, Writing, Publishing, Crafts, Stories
- About Me:
- My name is Carmen, I have been writing since I was 12 yrs old. I have recently gone back to school. I am 24 yrs old now. And happier then ever.
Carmen Fernandez's Blog
Unhappy Anniversary
On September 11, 2008 at 10:01 AM
Unhappy Anniversary
Each year, this time.
I feel grief I cannot subside
Although happiness follows
I'm still crying inside
Though no one hears my crys
My body shows the damage I hide
There is no one there to ease the pain
People who try
Don'y know what to say
A simple " Don't worry so much"
Or " We will make it through
no matter what it takes"
Someone to stand by me,
To aid this heart
to hurt no more.
But only the return of her hero
who fights in a war
Can rem… Continue
Unhappy Anniversary
Each year, this time.
I feel grief I cannot subside
Although happiness follows
I'm still crying inside
Though no one hears my crys
My body shows the damage I hide
There is no one there to ease the pain
People who try
Don'y know what to say
A simple " Don't worry so much"
Or " We will make it through
no matter what it takes"
Someone to stand by me,
To aid this heart
to hurt no more.
But only the return of her hero
who fights in a war
Can rem… Continue
Posted on September 11, 2008 at 9:30am — 2 Comments
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I do know that whether it is or isn't, I want to get free of it. I assume you also want to be free of your grief. If it lasts over three years in an acute form it may be interfereing with a normal life like my December depression.
I'll share here my poem with you. Maybe you feel better about me and not feel I was trying to tell you what, or how to feel, but thought you were seeking a way out of your recurrent anual grief.
Again, please accept my empathy for the terrible loss you have sustained.
IN DECEMBER
like a drunken old woman
the earth
crawls
beneath a
blanket
of frozen snow.
In December
I never glance into mirrors
for fear I'll see her eyes
reaching back
into mine.
In December
I dream nightly
that I’m placing flowers
on her
frozen grave.
In December,
like scudding leaves
whisked down
frozen streets
form letters arrive.
Their words roll over me
like ice.
In December,
the pale sun swings
painfully short across a
cold gray sky,
then tumbles
over the edges of the earth
into mausoleums of darkness.
But the sun
will soon sweep
a longer arc
across the earth,
and she’ll throw off
her frozen blanket of snow,
her crust will thaw,
as will my blood
and once more
begin to flow