Withering

This is a poem I wrote about my parents’ deaths, and my struggle with grief magnified by depression due to Bipolar Disorder as well as my struggle with Post-traumatic Stress Disorder, which is known for manifesting itself in soldiers, but it is not known that civilians can have it as well.

A father tills the soil, 

bringing the best to the surface.

He helps his children, who are his plants

by planting them securely in the flowerpots

to grow and thrive, blooming in vivid colors

A mother is a gardener

She sees the flowers as her children.

As her flowers grow, she nurtures them

They flourish in her care.

She holds them close to her in the midst of storms.

Eventually they are transplanted into real earth.

Whiplash.

Everything jerked to a sudden stop.

Life was put on hold, as if the ‘pause’ button was pushed.

A pickup truck, speeding towards her like quicksilver

Crashing, the impact sounding like a blast from a cannon when it’s shot.

She dropped the flowerpot I was in.

The soil he tilled was suddenly scattered

My flowerpot shattered.

I had to be transplanted much too early.

I started wilting without my source of life.

Now, I am withering.

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