I know it has been quite some time since I have shared any new poetry with you all, but I’m back. 
Just wrote this one a few days ago. I was thinking about the different things that affect many of our little girls and ultimately, us as grown women. So, this is one of the things I came up with. Hope you enjoy it and as always, feedback is welcomed!
Have a great weekend!
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The Cycle
she never understood why
he didn’t stay
days/into/weeks/into/months/into/years
found her tears dried
but her eyes were still wide with a silent hope
that gripped constant expectations
that tomorrow
would be different
that tomorrow’s sun would rise
she would rub her eyes
and would hear him come in
just to make sure she was awake
cause that’s
what the good ones do
but it would only take
a few minutes
before the alarm
went off again
and she realized
that there was no him
any-where
she would stare at the ceiling
feeling
that if she could only be
too naive to remember
and
clever enough to forget
than she wouldn’t have to
lie here
every morning
and wonder
if he ever even cared enough to
regret
not being there
and every morning
after waking from the same dream
where she was chasing the same thing
she still never seemed
to notice the repetition
or how strangely similar
the things were in him
so she would spin her wheels
trying to fill an empty space
instead of trying to make a break
from the place where patterns grow
and since no one ever told her
it
wasn’t
her
fault
every morning
as natural to her
as yawning and blinking
she was instantly thinking
that some-how
she
could have done
some-thing
to make him not
Be
Gone.
she could only figure
that she must have
done something wrong
because
maybe if
she had been right
she wouldn’t be waking up
in the middle of every night
reaching out for
him
and then
struggling to decide
if the tears she felt
and the cries she heard
were
her mother’s
her daughter’s
or
hers.
-cdt – 4/29/08
