Second Day of Mourning

Second Day of Mourning

The second day of mourning is always grey,

When the grandeur of elaborate pain

Fades into a comprehensible dawn

The asthmatic morning labored to wheeze

a few competent breaths to last from bus to school.

A grim visage canopies a lurching heart that still stumbles

In the quicksilver and endless corridors of remembering.

Mourning seems such a vain thing.

It cries aloud to be seen, solicits pity with

Conscious tears and wanton dysphoria,

Damns an implosion with a paradoxical front.

Trudging up the overhead bridge that prevent dented fenders

And stubborn bloodstains on the roads,

The sweaty morning clings onto my skin and sorrow

Weighing with the symbolism of exertion.

Written by: Gaston Ng

Perfection Wasted

And another regrettable thing about death
is the ceasing of your own brand of magic,
which took a whole life to develop and market --
the quips, the witticisms, the slant
adjusted to a few, those loved ones nearest
the lip of the stage, their soft faces blanched
in the footlight glow, their laughter close to tears,
their tears confused with their diamond earrings,
their warm pooled breath in and out with your heartbeat,
their response and your performance twinned.
The jokes over the phone.
The memories packed in the rapid-access file.
The whole act.
Who will do it again? That's it: no one;
imitators and descendants aren't the same.

Written by: John Updike

I Measure Every Grief I Meet

I measure every grief I meet

With analytic eyes;

I wonder if it weighs like mine,

Or has an easier size.

I wonder if they bore it long,

Or did it just begin?

I could not tell the date of mine,

It feels so old a pain.

I wonder if it hurts to live,

And if they have to try,

And whether, could they choose between,

They would not rather die.

I wonder if when years have piled--

Some thousands--on the cause

Of early hurt, if such a lapse

Could give them any pause;

Or would they go on aching still

Through centuries above,

Enlightened to a larger pain

By contrast with the love.

Written by: Emily Dickinson

Time does not bring relief

Time does not bring relief; you all have lied

Who told me time would ease me of my pain!

I miss him in the weeping of the rain;

I want him at the shrinking of the tide;

The old snows melt from every mountain-side,

And last year's leaves are smoke in every lane;

But last year's bitter loving must remain

Heaped on my heart, and my old thoughts abide.

There are a hundred places where I fear

To go - so with his memory they brim.

And entering with relief some quiet place

Where never fell his foot or shone his face

I say, 'There is no memory of him here!'

And so stand stricken,

so remembering him.

Written by: Edna St Vincent Millay

Roberto

Thank you for the, "yes," your smile always gave me when we met.
Thank you for telling me it was the little things in life like my phone calls that kept you going. Thank you for listening to my sorrows and then giving me encouragement when I needed it. Thank you for seeing the pain behind my smile and giving me comfort.
Thank you for the admiration and respect you gave me.
Thank you for loving me for who I am, and not expecting more or less from me.
Thank you for the many hours you gave me sitting in your garden. Time is precious.
Thank you for your humor and how you kept me laughing.
Thank you for the grace and elegance you added to our every meeting.
Thank you for the high standards and integrity you demanded from yourself and those around you.
Thank you for seeing the best in me and not letting me forget it.
Thank you for the stubborn independence and self reliance that kept you strong and led the way for me.
Thank you for your love of beauty, both the inward and the outward, and how your sharp eye sharpened mine.
Thank you for believing in me and wanting me here, with you.
Thank you for loving me and telling me so.
Thank you for choosing me as friend, sister, family.

Written by: Christine McAuliffe

One would think after having been through this horrifying experience no less than 5 months previous, you would have some sort of mental preparation done to protect yourself. You would think that you wouldn’t hope they would return, knowing that hope and faith can be your bitterest enemies. You would think that the pain wouldn’t feel the same, that it wouldn’t cut in new places and rip your soul apart. You would think that you would be able to find your voice to give the grief its badly wanted need for expression. You would think that you wouldn’t be so numb, shocked, stunned, and ultimately silent.

I sat down today to try to give a voice to my pain. I sat down to attempt to try to get something out of me that I could start to analyze, and make sense of. I sat here and tried to write something eloquent, thoughtful, insightful, and all I could come up with was a blank word document to show for my hours of tears and trying

I want to scream at the top of my lungs and never stop.

I want to run like a lunatic down the street screaming at the top of my lungs.

I want the world to know this kind of devastation.

I want the world to fear this kind of devastation.

I want to hear them all screaming with me as they too suffer this kind of living hell.

I want to be selfish and keep this grief all to myself.

I want to be angry at my friends for leaving me alone.

I want to be angry at the war for taking them from me.

I want to scream at the top of my lungs and never stop.

I want my friends here with me so my screams can turn to laughter.

I want to feel whole again.

I want to wallow in the darkness I am living in.

I want to dance in the light with my friends.

I want to be anywhere but here.

I want to be anyone but me.

I want to scream at the top of my lungs and never stop.

I want to be all these things because all I am is numb.

Written by Me.

I am raw. Angry. Lonely. Bewildered. Ashamed. Frightened. Miserable. Rejected. Proud. Useless. Enraged. Incapable. Defeated…I could go on and on…I am a complete contradiction. Once, I had friends who understood me, now I am left to understand myself and that thought terrifies me. Once, I had friends who knew my soul, now I am left to nurture myself without their loving guidance. Once, I had friends who were like brothers. They were closer to me than any sibling I have. They were my family. They were everything to me. There is not a memory of my life that I have that doesn’t include them in some way. I am scared to create a life without them in it. I cannot imagine my life without them in it. At this moment, I cannot imagine life.