Wed, 01/02/2019 - 09:43 -- Romii

Feet dragging, limbs hanging, eyes distant in their sacks.
When old women's families send them here there is no looking back.
They heap their sorrows, pray for tommorows,
The halls are dark and dumb.

I once made a friend, the happiest of them all
She told me about her family, her daughter, the places she visited, the lovely times spent.
She reminded me to persue my dreams, to continue to be me.
But you know all good things must come to an end,
When i returned, she was dead.

I say im happy, you seemed surprised
But you've never been inside,
Seen them slowly become crippled,
Seen their faces hung to their shoulders, their old lips mumbling about the times when they lived.
Yes, the times when they lived, cause that 'home' is a place where old women wait to die.
I say im happy because maybe now she's happy, her pain subsided, sorrows dissolved, like the ones before her, and the others in the waiting line.

The land of the forgotten,
Their families have already labelled them 'dead' in their heads.
Guilty, i am,
But i just cant bring myself to answer her call.
She'll ask me when im coming to visit, and i'll lie again
And again.
But i just cant bring myself to hear her joyless laughter, the creaks of her wheelchair, the stories of her back in her days.
I cant bring myself to see her sagged, wrinkled skin, her jagged nails and false teeth.
I cant bring myself to feel sad or pitiful, i know of her wicked ways.

I just cant answer my phone,
Or lie again.
No, not today.


This poem is about: 
My family
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 


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