Special Poem
#1
There I stood in the living room
Staring down at the old woman
Pupils dilated
Skin pale
A grayish hue covering over her features
Her ribs broken in a futile attempt to save her
A tube down her throat to do what she could no longer do herself
Press. Pump. Press. Pump. Press. Pump.
Her frame shakes, my back hurts
There's nothing left for me to break
I lost a friend that day
"Have a nice life," she said to me
I thought then about a timeless phrase
You're dead to me
And I wondered...
Is this how they see me now?
Choking on my own insides?
Or am I the only one?
