Poems

I’m not really a poet. What am I saying, I am not a poet. But I do like a bit of poetry when I can fathom what it’s about. I have a habit of hanging around with poets and artists in the hope that a little bit of their creativity might brush off – after all some people seem to get more than their fair share of talent.

During and after treatment I wrote down a few words and turned them into poems.

Beyond

When I walk into the room

it is empty

Beyond the window

a tree

bare

I know something will happen here.

You will tell me

and I will crumble

fade.

Beyond the tree

people

talking

life goes on.

You walk in

kind, capable, knowing.

You bear bad news

I guessed it

waiting.

Felt it growing

inside.

Beyond the people

beds

where I will lie

Your hands will wound me

steal what makes me woman

But beyond the breast

Life.

Touch 

He was the last one to touch me

there

as he stole from me.

My own hand hovers

scared to touch

there.

where once was full beauty

now stretched, ugly.

This disease mocks me

there

I am woman cut flat.

Slumber

Across from me she is crying

her sleep troubled, like mine.

She talks to no one

but I am here

a witness to her fear.

Her body, like mine has let her down.

Yet our minds fight on.

Thoughts stalk the corridors of our slumber.

In the morning

she and I will wake

forgetting the fears we fought tonight.

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