Four poems

I wrote four poems. Two about my dad's death, and two about being sick this last year. I think it's time to share them. I wrote them for a class, and they're a little unpolished, but heartfelt :). Enjoy!

Gone

"I think he's dead."

A knife in my heart.

A chill in my spine.

Disbelief.

Fear.

Denial.

My mom is there.

I fly to meet her.

I go to the hospital.

Your eyes are closed.

You look like you're breathing.

It's just the machine.

Counselor.

Friend.

Father.

When your heart stopped, so did mine.

When your breath left, mine couldn't be caught.

When your Spirit fled, mine yearned to follow.

Mom cried over you.

I held your hand.

We stood around your shell.

After

My father is no longer here,

His Spirit fled this place.

Although, this news, I met with fear,

Peace slowly fills that space.

Some people die in war, I know,

While others die at home.

But my heart states that this is so:

We never die alone.

For with us dies the hopes and dreams

Of all we've yet to do.

Our families, to me it seems,

Will die a little too.

And yet in death there is new life,

From winter's cold, a spring:

You are free from grief and strife

And lessons, yet, you bring.

Our life does not conclude with death.

I do believe that's true.

And though you took your final breath,

Yet I will be with you.

But meanwhile you will be with me.

I'll live the lessons taught.

My life I'll live so all will see

What your life in me wrought.

Your master's touch with me will be

For time and all eternity.

Sickness

When you're sick

You get so sick

Of being sick

The doctors tell you that you're sick

And that you will stay sick

Unless you do things to get un-sick

Soon, your whole life is sick

Every part of you is sick

Your mind, body, and soul are sick

You define yourself as sick

You don't exercise because you're sick

You stay home because you're sick

"I would go there, but I'm sick"

Excuses build because you're sick

Until, of excuses, all your friends are sick

What is sick

About being sick

Is that you make everyone sick

Until your whole world is sick

And of "sick sick sick"

You get really sick

Really, it's sick

Just how sick

I am of being sick

Recovery

You either get better or die;

I chose the former.

I may regret that decision.

Doctors, appointments, therapy, and drugs

Baby steps to get back to

The place where you once could run.

And setbacks, sometimes often,

Where once you advanced

But, slowly, symptoms soften

You gain what once you chanced.

And then, your life, its structure takes again

As, one more time, you join the ranks of men.