When quiet comes over me
I notice the burn
In the rim of my eyes
And my heart grows heavy with sorrow.
For me?
For them?
For my life's emptiness?
That creeps up my limbs
Into that cave within?
Where it settles to leave a trail
Of undropped tears.
Or is the sorrow for myself
For having borrowed against my life on end
Living others' hopes and dreams and expectations?
While my dreams,
Unformed as yet
In the belly of my womb,
Never made it to even the rim of the plate
I'm holding in my hands.
Crowded out
By what I was
Supposed to do
Supposed to dream
Supposed to hope.
Crowded out
By all those
I was supposed to take care of
Ahead of me.
A low man on the totem pole,
I somehow still carry that position
As the adult I am today,
Now,
With those I love.
And I look back and realize
I'm still playing the game
Of the good child.
That cursed good child curse
That I hold
Within my heart
To this day.
Unknowingly
Fulfilling the promises,
Unspoken as they might be,
Of yesteryear.
Time for a glass of wine
To ponder
Change.
(C) 2018 Iris B. Struller