Missing You

** I wrote this poem in memory of my Late Grandfather, who recently just went to God**

As I sit here writing about death

all I could think of is that you are just gone

watching you fight for your life and grapsing for your breath

I realize that you are in a better place and you aren’t alone

My eyes swollen and red, full with tears

with my thick black mascara running through my face

but I shall remember all those happy years

we spent together, knowing that you are in a better place

Oh, how I wish I can see you one more time

I know that one day we shall meet again

I know your with God, being his angel and that’s fine

but for now my heart will just be full with sorrow and pain

Each day all I can do is cry

for you, wishing you were still home

Everyday without you seems so dull, dark and dry

I sometimes wonder if life is just a sad game

Nothing is the same without you

but your gone and that’s something we have to live with

This is nothing but a bitter truth

without you there is no more brightness and light.


R.I.P GrandPa

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#1   samantha on 10.19.11 at 10:56 pm

This is very touching and I can tell it’s straight from your heart. You posted this right away so it’s fresh on your mind. I’m so sorry you lost your grandpa. The only thing you probably overlooked when posting was the line that says “without you there is more brightness and light.” Did you mean to write there is no more…? Otherwise, nicely written and very sad =(

#2   Pru on 10.21.11 at 12:03 am

loved it! It made me feel like I was morning my grandfather…great job I bet it was a heard thing to write about

#3   michelle on 10.22.11 at 10:34 am

Thanks Samantha and Pru it wasnt something easy to write about or even to go through. 🙁
Samantha thanks for telling me about that line, I correct it. 🙂

#4   jenny abeles on 10.25.11 at 8:18 pm

My favorite image here is the black mascara running over someone’s tear-stained face. I like it because it’s not common to hear something so unflattering in a poem of mourning, and if I were to rewrite this poem, I would work with this image. In ancient cultures, and maybe some today, mourners put ashes on their heads and shredded their clothes and skin with their fingernails–there’s something to this tearing oneself down in the face of death, I think. Our vanity doesn’t stand a chance against it, after all.

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