Wrong Years

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
A family living in the middle of a brutal war. I had to makes this poem out of a list of words I was given my a teacher. I kept the words in the order she gave them to me, and I just added my own words between them.

Submitted: November 07, 2014

A A A | A A A

Submitted: November 07, 2014

A A A

A A A


Bad… I believe that this is the simplest way of summing it up… summing up the torture.

The town had turned black with the bombs that kill little boys who have no time to brace themselves for impact or life or fleeting life.

Only a few years ago they were feeding off of the breast of mothers who will no longer bring out old toys that bury children’s clothing in the dusty old closet.

The same mother must cook for the incomplete family and crutch her pan forcing her crying to stop as the tears dissolve from the heat of the stove.  

Later in the night, she finds his doll empty of stuffing from all of the love he gave to it.  She feels empty from the love she gave to his dying body, as both of them knew this was the end.

Everywhere she can find an excuse to not go on.  People whisper false hopes and try to desperately to fill the glass from empty so that they can call it “half full.”

The mother must remind herself that a life of gold is not a promise and no one is guaranteed and no one can just hand her aid as heart aches thump from falling bombs and headaches won’t hold up.

She sits on the beach, digging a hold into the sand with a hook, and thinking about how her son never got a proper funeral.  She thought of the image of the last living looks he ever made.

She knew her heart was not shatterproof, but she shut it up with the silver of her sorrow and added some stiff stiches just in case.

Back at home she places teacups, but her chattering teeth still shows that she thinks of him.  She fears that too many people die in the wrong years. 


© Copyright 2020 Katya Yermakova . All rights reserved.

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