The terrible feeling

The terrible feeling

A Poem by Maglia Weaver Twill

When I went to find him, he wasn't there.  That was my love story.  It ended too soon, and I did not stay with the love of my youth as I had read about so many had found.  It brings eternal sadness to me to think about it.  I don't know who he is or where he lives, and he has no desire or wherewithal or purpose to talk to me.  He wouldn't take me though I loved him with my very life, even heart and soul. 

I wasn't quite pretty enough and he could get better.  I knew it though looks were not everything to him either always.  Now I am too old, and I had a child; and it was God in heaven who gave the child to me and allowed it to happen.  Now I still don't want to make friends, without him, I feel though I know he doesn't or didn't feel the same way, I still wanted him too.  I didn't want to be cast into nothingness.  The law bears its weight upon me.  The laws of the country which I am ignorant of treat me like a goat or one of a herd of cattle.  I feel no power and in my lack of livelihood and education of them, I do not know what hard lines the laws set for my life.  I can't go anywhere and explain it to anyone.  I feel as dignified as a fireplace mantle or the drapery that doesn't hang from the curtain rod.  I had wanted to see him again, somehow, I don't know why or how, in person.  I wanted what was unreasonable, too much. 

I wanted someone to know me, who I was, even to meet this child that I had had.  Though it must be said that I don't know what I want even now quite.  I thought I wanted to write, but it is no use to the person I thought would appreciate it or could or might.  It's a lost dream.  I hate so much about life though there is so much to love of it.  I will keep going at this cold, heartless plan perhaps, no matter, it cannot hurt; to feel the pavement hard and cold as his hatred of me, to be hated by the familiar, that is my life.  For what is familiar is most hated and by it I am most hated by.  I want him to always love me, but those I love do not love me, they hate me, and I hardly know what to do about it or where to turn, yet I want to turn to the familiar.  It makes no sense. I am crying now, to feel like this again, for we shall to live to be on this earth.  Why do we turn away and yet toward what we remember? What is it?  Where is he?  Why won't he be found? Why can't they come to find me?  I guess my son shall and for him I was grateful.  I won't go looking for love again, for shame.  Romance does not come to me.  Who am I?  Why can't I loose myself?  It is horrible to be full of oneself.

© 2014 Maglia Weaver Twill


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Added on November 28, 2014
Last Updated on November 28, 2014