Poems of Truth

Writing on a page

They laugh at me and call me names
And why? I can't quite place...
I was young when it first started
Possibly 9 or 10
They point and stare
And I question...
Why am I there?

They make fun of me for writing on a page
But they don't realise it's my only way to deal grief,
You don't know the full story so I'll keep it brief.
3 weeks before my birthday he passed away,
My Grandpa with whom I would laugh and play.
I didn't get to say farewell,
So instead I hid quite well.
My birthday was clouded with the pain I felt.
As I questioned...
Why had he left?

A smile was kept firmly on my face
But it did not reach my eyes.
The usual twinkle in my eye had quickly been replaced
Instead a dull blank void took its place.
If one would look closely you'd see them
The pools of tears gathering in my eyes
And yet not a single one fell.
So then I asked myself the question
Why had he left?

His funeral had come...
And we sang the hymns,
But my usual love for singing had died from within.
I remember how he would love to come and watch my elder sister and I sing in the church choir we were in.
I remember how we would all sing in the car on our way back from swimming lessons and how he tried to teach my brother to play guitar.
But now I am alone to say my final goodbye
And I can do nothing but cry.
As I question...
Why had he left?

I busied myself by writing him letters.
Almost as though he could reply.
I would update him on what had happened since he had left.
In a desperate attempt to just hold on to what I had left.
I would tell him how I felt and what our family was getting up to so while my writing was all I could do.
They just saw it as...
Writing on a page.

By Lizzie

Written: March 4th 2024