I miss my father. I miss my mother.
And my sisters, and my brother, John,
who called only once a couple years ago,
on my birthday.
Asking me the contemporary,
'How old are you, now?'
Merely because he didn't know
but wanted to get along.
It's just the holidays, they provide me
with irate longing
and my friends feel like havens that hide
and protect me from icy waves.
It's like the waters bear the shaky and icy truth.
The depths know and sound out my name,
a foreign tone to them.
I believe I have known love,
and the silvery slinky shadow it prefers to wear;
the gentleman callers and doll-faced affairs
but what I'd like to know, what I need to know,
is the love that comforts without being asked.
One that understands not of my ache
but of what I cannot let pass.
Comments
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A very skilful piece of writing thats sad but doesn`t exude desperation or self-loathing
Anyone that reads this and isnt moved in some way cant have any compassion,I sincerely hope you find that person who can understand what you cannot let pass
loved this work
bye
Rhet
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Hey, Rhet. Thanks for commenting on this, I'm glad you seem to see this for what I meant it to be. I appreciate your input, it's always good to receive.
Kristin
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