deepundergroundpoetry.com

I Didn't Even Notice

The day passed by, and I didn't even notice.
Now it's been two years and I didn't even notice.
No one brought it up to me and I still didn't even notice.
Maybe because there's no stone on the ground.
There's no where for me to place flowers if I chose.
So when the day comes I barely think of it.
Is it bad to say that him being gone for my life only hurts me at random times?
I love him and I miss him.
And when I stare at my son too long, it comes back at me.
Half of my entire family is gone.
Wiped out in less than ten years out of my twenty years of life.
And it hurts so much to think of how alone I already am.
And how I didn't even notice.
It had been two years since he died.
August 30th?
Or was the 29th?

F u c k.

Just fuck it!

I don't want to remember the day.
But I can't remember it anyway.
And that hurts because it's not marked on a grave.
My own flesh and blood, my own father's name.
His birth date.
And this date I can't remember.
It doesn't stick with me.
It doesn't seem real.
It probably never will seem real.
We weren't closest of family but I loved him.
Never told him how much he hurt me to his face.
Because I loved him too much and I just didn't know how to say the words.

I didn't tell him how I felt until two days before he died.
And then he passed away, I knew it was inevitable but it still broke me in half.
My broken heart smashes on the broken sidewalk for everyone to stare and gawk at it's contents.
I miss him.
My dad, father, a man whom did in his own ways help raise me.
He wasn't perfect, never a saint.
But he was my father and he also wasn't the worst person in the world.
He didn't beat me every night.
He didn't hit me, ground me or hurt me ever in my entire life.
He drank, broke his own heart several times again but he never left me.
He called me every time he had the chance.
Sometimes we got on each other's nerves but that's expected.
And he loved my mother, I know he did with all his heart.
But it was too bad that his first wife still had a huge chunk of that heart.
She died young, left my father with my two older siblings.
Whom his mother took to raising while my father, still a teenager took to work two jobs at the same time.
Had two more children with another woman.
And by time the oldest of those two was nine, he had met my mother and had me.

But that was twenty years ago.
And now I'm going on twenty-one in November.
And it's been two years since my father died.
The day passed by quietly, just like dying itself.
I don't know the date.
It was at the end of August.
And no one told me.
It was refreshing but heartbreaking all the same.
Because not only did no one remind me about the day.
But I didn't know it happened until I realized it was the beginning of September and my father's birthday is the 14th.
Maybe I should wish him a. . .

And there is it, the reminder.
Just hanging over my head.
Reminding me that half of my family is dead.
Including my own father, flesh and blood.
Grandparents are one thing but my father never got to meet my son.
And it hurts, it hurts so much.
Even when I get married, he won't walk me down the aisle.
And I'm glad that I never told him that he couldn't.
Because I would give anything if he could.

The day passed and I didn't even notice.
He died two years ago and I didn't even notice.
It has been two years since I saw my father alive.
And it hurts to think about it, it hurts every time.