Not long ago I was tuned into the Oprah Show. I watched as a saddened Marie Osmond related the story of her son Michaels death by his own hand. I was reminded of a piece of poetry I wrote on this subject several years ago after the death of a loved one's relative. Every stroke of my pen brought back the horrific feelings that I had to endure upon hearing that my mother had taken her life at the young age of forty-five. I am a survivor--she was not. I will not go into why she was not, because that is her story. Suffice it to say I'm not so sure I could have survived it either. However, I will say that because of my own grief it kept me from ever doing anything to cause that same grief to my own family no matter how tough the going became.
For anyone out there having a difficult time, know that tomorrow is another day, and help is simply a prayer away.
The name of my poetry is: THE PAIN GOES ON--because it does!
THE PAIN GOES ON
Suicide is devastating! It tears asunder
the heart, and rips it until nothing is left except fragments, that continue to haunt like bits and pieces of abstract painting on an artist's canvas.
Explosions of color signifying anger, guilt,
resentment and pain brush across stark white
void, writhing in wild configurations until--
frustration totally spent--the brush of memory
When motion ceases, words appear.
"Why did you leave me?"
"You didn't love me."
The brush of memory having temporarily purged the pain and frustration, creates new words on yet another stark white canvas.
"I forgive you."
"I'll always love you!"
These fragments are tucked away, and brought out only rarely. As time goes by, love has replaced anger and resentment--however,
THE PAIN GOES ON!