Goodnight, Jack.

I tried to recreate a poem i wrote when something terrible happened in my family. dont want to give away the ending. I think i left some parts out, alot of things are out of order, and theres some new parts, but i still love it.

My legs stick to the wooden chair

Sweaty, Humid, Sick.

This old rotating fan is the only relief

In this terrible heat.

I hear my Grandmother's cries

muffled by a wooden door.

My mother paces through the kitchen,

nails bitten til bleeding.

The gentle buzzing of the fan

as it comes back my way.

Sweat drips down my neck.

The fan turns away from me

as my Grandmothers sobs get louder.

My mother goes to comfort.

I should too.

 

but now the fan is coming back my way,

and Uncle Jack is still dead.

Author's Note

I might change it if i find the original one.

Reviews

[Last Lying Look]

I like this poem. It's sad. It's kinda of like; we're still stuck here whether they arent or not.
... I unno. I like it.

[[untitled]]

That's very good! I can relate to those stick, hot days... I can barely think when I'm in that situation. That seems pretty mean! But sometimes you can put your needs before, but I don't think this was the case.