The pictures are old
but we are still young.
Time doesn't come to hold.
The things never done.
Like that key board you had just begun
that is still lying in your garage.
Like that hug I didn't give you
that makes me feel so cold inside.
Like the muffins I want to bake
but won't cause you're not there to taste them.
You're not there.
Just a photo album of happy memories.
The pictures give me small little bruises
like papercuts.
Nearly invisible proves of pain
and I'm too scared to say that it still hurts.
'Cause it's so long ago.
'Cause we are not that dramatic.
'Cause we don't pity ourselves.
'Cause we just think of something else.
There's not a single thing that doesn't remind me of you.
What do you expect me to think about?
My hands are shaking.
My vision is blurry.
My heart is aching
and I'm so sorry.
For wanting to cry
eventhough it's long ago.
For reading my book
even when you left for the hospital.
For whishing you'd be there
eventhough I know it's good that
you're not there.
Just a photo album of happy memories.
These pictures will never show
how perfect you were.
And it hurts so much to know
that strangers will see this in the newspaper
'Cause they will never know.
How it felt to be your daughter.
How it feels to miss you every day.
How it will never stop to hurt.
'Cause they didn't know you.
Why do they need to know about our loss
if they will never be able to understand
just how much we lost?
YOU ARE READING
Staub, Risse und ein hohlklingendes Lachen
PoetryDer Titel mag vielleicht wie eine Horrorgeschichte klingen, beschreibt aber eher meinen aktuellen Geisteszustand. Erwartet also keine Meisterleistungen der Dichtkunst hier drin. Hier lagere ich einfach ein paar meiner dunkelsten Geheimnisse vor all...
