I find the only way I can process some emotions I can’t normally communicate is through music or poetry. Comics, prose or art just doesn’t seem to cut it sometimes, so I dabble when I need to. This morning, I found a poem I wrote when my father passed away.
I don’t want their pity
But I kind of need the help.
Things are moving much too fast
And I don’t know myself.
I wonder if they can see
The big black hole where you used to be
And that I think of you every single time
I stop to think of me.
I find what’s left is the regret
That I could have done you more.
I wanted to help but didn’t know how.
Now I won’t get a chance anymore.
Big black holes are hard to fill.
Some just never do.
How can I hope to ever be whole
When that hole won’t be filled by you?