What do I do
What do I do
with all of your stuff?
Your bed has been made.
The pillows were fluffed.
Your clothes have been washed.
I have packed them away.
All but a few shirts
that I wear every day.
What do I do
when I can't sleep at night?
I beg and I plead
for things to be right.
When day finally comes
My eyes are swollen and red.
I still can't admit
that my son is dead.
What do I do
when it comes time to pray?
Your place at the table
is still empty today.
This poem was written by ~enyaw~ on Jan 15, 2007.
Responses
2 comments so far.
Powerful.
HI ENYAW,I CAN'T TAKE DEATH,I KNOW THIS MUST BE DEVASTATING TO YOU,YES HIS PLACE AT THE TABLE MAY FOREVER BE EMPTY BUT HE HAS A PERMANENT PLACE IN YOUR HEART.REMEMBER WHAT WE LOVE WE CAN NEVER LEARNED TO "UNLOVED" FOR LOVE IS THE MOST POWERFUL OF EMOTIONS!!!
HEHE, I MAYBE THE OLDEST WRITER OF PWM AND THE LOUSIEST,TOO,BUT AM HAPPY I CAN EXPRESS MYSELF HERE EVEN THOUGH MY ENGLISH LANGUAGE IS VERY ELEMENTARY AND LIMITED.WE CAN BE FRIENDS BY E-MAILING ME AT : TLCT808@GMAIL.COM.