"plauge" poems - Hello Poetry

The sterile smell that covers my hands like a snug glove became so familiar. The trip to the intensive care unit at the same **** hospital became repetitive, it was like waking up in the morning and going to school....it became a traditional trip. each trip was followed with the sorrow, followed a darkness...the coldness and darkness that stretched over the hospital's interior snatched away laughs and cries and shoulders to cry on like the grim reaper. it came in like the plauge and there was just not turning back. and the worst part? the news, the messengers, were so mototoned. no feeling. no emotion in the delivery of the news. its always a cold hearted "im sorry" with a side of "there gone". These highly paid messengers whom wear the white coat which should symbolize purity and angel like creatures, cover up their mistakes and sew up the secrets with "we did everything we could". but when they actually accompanied the road to nothingness. When they actually stuck the bullet in the wound, when they actually choked up and messed up-they punched in the wrong numbers to the wrong program causing it to shut down but we are all only human right. But the real tragedy passing the fact a lifes last grain of sand has fell to the other side of the hour glass, are the mourning humans whom still lurk in the shadows of the same **** gross hospital. Its as each time I enter the doors of the hospital, i enter the realm of death. Each time we enter death is delivered to us and each time we step into that same **** hospital the rain showers of despair and hurt, and confusion. All that is left now are the memories in-beaded in our minds and rest in the crevices of our hearts. All that lingers are those giggles and smiles and the past. All they left was a footprint..... in our hearts. And now we stand. Left with the sterile.meek.sound...and the coldness...of the same, **** hospital.

0

Jan 11, 2014

Jan 11, 2014 at 1:17 PM UTC

sylvene-taylor

the sterile meek sound

The sterile smell that covers my hands like a snug glove became so familiar. The trip to the intensive care unit at the same **** hospital became repetitive, it was like waking up in the morning and going to school....it became a traditional trip. each trip was followed with the sorrow, followed a darkness...the coldness and darkness that stretched over the hospital's interior snatched away laughs and cries and shoulders to cry on like the grim reaper. it came in like the plauge and there was just not turning back. and the worst part? the news, the messengers, were so mototoned. no feeling. no emotion in the delivery of the news. its always a cold hearted "im sorry" with a side of "there gone". These highly paid messengers whom wear the white coat which should symbolize purity and angel like creatures, cover up their mistakes and sew up the secrets with "we did everything we could". but when they actually accompanied the road to nothingness. When they actually stuck the bullet in the wound, when they actually choked up and messed up-they punched in the wrong numbers to the wrong program causing it to shut down but we are all only human right. But the real tragedy passing the fact a lifes last grain of sand has fell to the other side of the hour glass, are the mourning humans whom still lurk in the shadows of the same **** gross hospital. Its as each time I enter the doors of the hospital, i enter the realm of death. Each time we enter death is delivered to us and each time we step into that same **** hospital the rain showers of despair and hurt, and confusion. All that is left now are the memories in-beaded in our minds and rest in the crevices of our hearts. All that lingers are those giggles and smiles and the past. All they left was a footprint..... in our hearts. And now we stand. Left with the sterile.meek.sound...and the coldness...of the same, **** hospital.