“If only’s,” moves within
as if nail being hammered into heart.
It hurts in dead of night
when rains beat on window sill.
When sounds of wind
become feelings igniting sadness.
“If only,” I said this or did this
plays as if broken record.
Time slows as shadowed image of son
turns away, and
repetitive “only song,” whips mind
causing pain.
If only I could sleep.
Difficult night. I have to separate self from a dishonoring son.
First time doing a poem from this side of screen. It feels right.
Not the type of poem I usually write.
