A poem I made for my grandmother's death three years ago.
The opening of doors and voices reach my sleeping ears.
I open my eyes, climb out of bed, and confirm my biggest fear.
My dad sits there, hugging her, crying.
I pray, hoping that they're lying.
I sit down in a chair, running fingers through my hair.
My aunts and uncles tell me that they care,
But then why don't THEY feel a the pain in their chest?
Why are they the ones who've been so blessed?
They shared none of their wealth,
To recover my 'Bambo's' health.
Now she lays with no life, with my dad, grandfather, and I weeping,
Crying our souls out while the rest go back to sle