(Kind of a stream of consciousness poetry. I rarely write poetry on the computer. I prefer writing it by hand, then typing it up if I choose. The first line came to me earlier and I chose to type it instead.)
The fog is lifting.
Slowly.
Too slowly.
My head is clearer now than
Yesterday.
But still.
Still it hurts.
Still it wants.
What does it want?
I don’t know.
No one can answer that for me.
I can’t even
Answer it.
But still it is there.
It still hurts.
Still it aches.
Why? Why what?
Why do I ache?
Why do I hurt?
I want more.
More what?
More peace.
Something else.
Something I don’t have.
What is it?
I don’t know.
Blue skies.
Waterfalls.
Wind rustling the leaves and branches
Above.
Independence.
Closure.
Peace.
Closure.
From whom?
No one that can give it to me.
The dead.
The hated.
The one I couldn’t say
Goodbye to.
Too many, too late.
The fog is lifting.
Clarity.
Elusive clarity.
One step forward.
Looking backward.
Hoping for
Goodbyes.
That will never come.
~P
The Great Penguini Speaketh 