When the storms a rage and loving you is a losing battle
If I were to drown here, it wouldn't  matter
There's things you seem to do
I thought that love was never true
And everyday I'm a slave to the heartache
No, it's not heartbreak, it's an ache I crave and put everything at stake
You tore my world apart
Like it was something you had planned to do
Trying to find our love, headed back to the start
Cause giving up a love like you
Is something I just can't seem to do

This is a Pregnancy loss Poem that is quite long. I wanted to warn ahead of time in case of triggering topics!



You dont know what its like
To have millions of dreams for the future
and then have them ripped away from you
all in a blink of an eye.

You dont know what its like
to love a tiny human you havent even met yet
just to have to say goodbye
before you even said Hello.

You dont even know what its like
To give birth to your child
just to hear *"she's gone"
and cry like your heart has been ripped out.

You dont know what its like
to go home with empty arms
when all you want to do
is cling to your child.

You dont know what its like
To never hear their first cry
or laugh, or see their first smile
or  hear their first "I love you mommy/Daddy".

You dont know what its like
to feel like you failed your child
when they needed you the most
and hear the words "there is nothing you can do"

You dont know what its like
to hold your child's urn and sob
Sob for the life you never met
sob until there are no more tears left

You dont know what its like
to wake up in the middle of the night
from a horrible nightmare
only to realize it's actually your new reality

You dont know what its like
to feel like there is a hole in your heart
that doesnt seem to ever heal or lessen
but seems to grow deeper with each breath.

You dont know what its like
to be jealous of the people around you
Holding and showing their newborn babies
and Screaming *"ITS NOT FAIR!"

You dont know what its like
To be told *"GOD HAD A REASON"
and wanting to scream
"You're god must be cruel to want my child dead!"

You dont know what its like
To be stuck in so much pain
and watch the world around you move on
Terrified you're child will soon be forgotten by them.

You dont know what its like
to be so Terrified to talk about them
becuase you dont want to make others uncomfortable
But it pains you deeply to be silent

You dont know what its like
to wake up each morning knowing
your baby is no longer with you,
that you have to keep going on without them

And if you know what it is like
I am so Terribly Sorry for your pain
No one and I mean NO ONE
Should have to go through this pain.
I wouldn't even wish it on my worst enemy

I found a picture of you today
buried beneath the clutter
of seven years of pain.
I remember when it was taken.
You were so full of life that day.
I swear your smile
could have led boats
back to the bay.
I remember your presence,
and the way it felt
to hold your attention.
Those eyes
a raging fire
with a crystal clarity
meant only for the divine.
I swear you hold secrets
between the walls of time.
I can still hear you
when I whisper your name
over the rolling waves
of the lake,
your final resting place.
I swear when I'm there,
I can feel your hand
on my shoulder,
comforting me,
like a warm summer rain
on a beautiful August day.

The hallow wind is relapsed across the
valley. Its breeze nurturing a dying blue tulip. Her pedals are worn out and she is chipping away like old paint. The silence is a curious reckoning always calculating and analyzing. The ground is solid and pure, it's body is covered in veins.
I can taste the salt in the river.
I can feel the rapid, ruthless, fluid that flows through the tiny piping system.
I see a man with a flower.
A gun blast can be heard.
His body just lying there, blood every where, watering the roots beneath him, and the flower proped against him as a sick joke told by death.
The valley smells of blood.
It reacts by destroying all evidence of imperfection.
Over time the man's body is swallowed into the earth.
A hundred more pickable flowers grow upon this man. All of them waiting for someone to pick them.