That's it.
He just died.
No sign. No warning. Nothing.
He just...
~~~
When you hear something like this happening on the news, you experience a feeling of loss, of sympathy, for the family of whoever died. But you never really understand something until you experience it for yourself.
But you never realize you don't want to understand until you do.
I want to write so bad. The words are buzzing around in my brain, screaming to be put on paper. But hours run dry, and still nothing is on the page except for wrinkles where the tears hit. The poem is so loud in my head, yet I can't comprehend what my heart and brain are telling me to say. Shouldn't going through some traumatic event inspire a work of genius?
I unenthusiastically throw my pen down onto my desk, standing up. The pen falls on the paper point first, making black ink swirl into a wet spot and creating a miniature galaxy on the page.
I sit back down and title the piece. All the buzzing in my head has stopped, and only silence has remained. I slip the paper into one of the laminated pockets in my binder of poetry, a reminder of this day, September 16th, and a reflection of how I feel inside.
Empty.
YOU ARE READING
Empty
PoetryTwo classmates have been bonding over their mutual love of poetry, and talk to each other through their passion. But all of a sudden one of them dies. Now left without her best friend and the person who gave her the confidence to go on, she tries to...
