Clifton

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I wrote this poem for my late husband, on the eight year anniversary of his death. His death still haunts me. 

Clifton

It's been eight long years since you left me,

I've lived in hell then came back again…,

And I still don't have any idea…,

If I even can…deal with this pain...

How do I deal with my pain?

I live with it today,

Like a constant dull ache inside my chest…,

Like an odor that always continues to reek.

I'm never able to reach…

That pinnacle of relief...,

That I seek.

I still long to feel your warmth next to me...,

Like a teenager in love with the boy…,

Whose constantly out of reach.

I still long to feel your arms around me in the mornings…,

Through out all of my days …,

The feeling of being loved by someone…,

I know truly loves me.

Someone Who feels I'm worth his love...,

And everything else he can give me .

Someone who told me ...,

That he actually...,

Feels like he's  lucky to have me!

The protection and safety…,

Your presence would  radiate through out.

My soul and my body…,

Our home, and our family...,

The way our lives used to be…,

The memories are so far in the past…,

You would think I'd forget.

It still feels like yesterday…,

I still have all the same regrets.

If only I hadn't taken you there...

Trusted those people…,

To want the best for you...,

And , for our family…,

To actually care.

Why didn't I speak out when your behavior wasn't right…,

the last time we were together…,

As a family…eating  dinner...just like any other random night.

Why couldn't I save you?…

What could I have done differently?...

Sometimes I allow myself to daydream...,

About the life  we would have had…,

Today…,

If only…,

You had survived.

If only…,

You were still here, in our lives.

If only...,

I had realized…in time…what was happening to you.

I still torture myself with self doubt and recriminations…,

My actions...,

Could I really have been knowing…

Could I really have saved you?

 I didn't know the truth…

Until after your death…

Was there anything…anything on this earth…,

Anything at all…

That  I really could have done?

To rearrange... the end your life met!

 

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stever commented on Clifton

03-15-2010

this is a sad sad story but writein very well i like it..StEvEr

Poetry is not an expression of the party line. It's that time of night, lying in bed, thinking what you really think, making the private world public, that's what the poet does.

Allen Ginsberg (1926-1997) U.S. poet.

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