All the Stages of Grief
Robert1000
Registrant
I wanted to share this poem with the families and friends, because I feel like we share so much in the way of experience. The poem is about my own journey from someone who insisted even to myself that my life was great, my childhood idyllic, even as I cut myself and struggled with self-destruction, all with a cheery humor.
All the Stages of Grief
Isnt it strange you remembered the day all
beautiful? Dun peaks melted in the sundown
darkness, a pale pink in the west to deepest purple,
the mountain loomed, a black buffalo silent:
those details meant beauty. And peace. Its not like
That to me now. Now, the sagebrush still smells sweet,
the cool wind from the canyon still rustles the grass
and ruffles the water. But I cant talk about those good
times anymore. They dont exist. A huge mass
is all thats left of the mountain, and in my gut, wood.
They say grief has seven stages, or nine. Or five. Denial
might be the first. It hurts. You hold it close, smash
your face into it, breathe it in, face prickling until the pillow
seems so soft and nice, and when you lift your head you feel
good, mostly, except for the quiet times like
When you beg to feel the slick quick jerk of broken
glass on your knee. Again. Dig in. Quit it. Shake
your head. Say you fell. Go to hell, but go in silence.
And say its nice. Its confusing. Dont complain.
When you look back, remember something else
Nice, like the sunset. The second stage is confusion.
Not officially. It might be anger. But thats been here
all along. What about your grin? Where does that
come in? What about your active imagination? What
about the time you almost died? Wasnt it funny?
All the Stages of Grief
Isnt it strange you remembered the day all
beautiful? Dun peaks melted in the sundown
darkness, a pale pink in the west to deepest purple,
the mountain loomed, a black buffalo silent:
those details meant beauty. And peace. Its not like
That to me now. Now, the sagebrush still smells sweet,
the cool wind from the canyon still rustles the grass
and ruffles the water. But I cant talk about those good
times anymore. They dont exist. A huge mass
is all thats left of the mountain, and in my gut, wood.
They say grief has seven stages, or nine. Or five. Denial
might be the first. It hurts. You hold it close, smash
your face into it, breathe it in, face prickling until the pillow
seems so soft and nice, and when you lift your head you feel
good, mostly, except for the quiet times like
When you beg to feel the slick quick jerk of broken
glass on your knee. Again. Dig in. Quit it. Shake
your head. Say you fell. Go to hell, but go in silence.
And say its nice. Its confusing. Dont complain.
When you look back, remember something else
Nice, like the sunset. The second stage is confusion.
Not officially. It might be anger. But thats been here
all along. What about your grin? Where does that
come in? What about your active imagination? What
about the time you almost died? Wasnt it funny?
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