Buried Alive

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Today’s NaPoWriMo prompt was pretty alluring, so I decided to give it a go.  Construct a poem in the voice of a member of your family.  Connecting positively with my father during the holiday today, I realized that I yearn for that kind of connection with him much more often.  But it’s hard to get close to him sometimes.   Sometimes it’s hard to want to be close to him.  Such is the great paradox with members of our families of origin…wanting closeness, but wanting distance.  I see a lot of sadness and vulnerability in my father.  I wish I could help him to be happier, but I know that I’m powerless to change him, and so I often feel frustrated when I think of him.  This poem might stir up a lot of feelings, like the prompt suggested.  Let’s see what happens.
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Buried Alive

My house is a graveyard
and I am buried alive in memories.
I am afraid of too much space
so I clog every available inch of my home
with something, anything
anything to keep me from confronting the emptiness within.

I am so tired because
there is no room to move in the place where I live.
Wanting.
What am I wanting anyway?
I spend much of my time alone
Without a mirror to look into–
how can I know myself?
My mirror of nearly 45 years
went off to California
She can finally breathe
She can move
I miss her.
She was my only real contact
with the outside world,
and now she’s gone.
What have I done?

I keep myself from living out my full potential.
I am scared, and my fear dictates every thought and deed.
Somewhere in the mental morass
I am  talented and brilliant and tender,
but how could I know,
how could anyone know?

I am buried alive in the graveyard of my body, my home–
And I am profoundly alone.

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