Loss leaves a mark that's hard to describe
A roaring hand
Come thunderous from the sky
Striking with all it's might
Fingers wrapped tightly in the electricity of an oncoming storm
Knitted through clouds
Woven into the hard rains
Slamming cold and wet
Against you when you least expect it
And no matter how long you lose
You're never prepared
There is no umbrella to hold off the torrents
Of the missing
The dead
And the unresponsive
And all three spell out gone the same way
But not all of them makes the same sounds
To have and to lose is sudden
A hole opened up
Where a person used to reside
To disappear is another
Not knowing if leaving was a choice
Or a consequence
Not knowing when they'll come back
If at all
And to miss what's right in front of you can hurt the most
You don't know what you're missing
But
You don't know what you're missing
Especially when the reaching
The grasping
The desperate hand
Isn't reciprocated
And it's just a shadow
Reaching into the greater nothing
In all of these
The only protection you'll get
Is to know
There's no way to get back
The missing
The dead
And the unresponsive
YOU ARE READING
Please, Disregard
PoetryAn untold story from a misplaced generation, this is teen angst at its finest. These the writings of The Suicide Notebook, or how I'd imagine them to be. It's mostly going to be in poetry form, slam or rhyming. Keep in mind that slam poetry sounds a...
