Updated: Jul 29
Sometimes the loneliness overcomes me!
I have so much to say. Who will care?
Who will listen? No one is there.
Surrounded by people, yet I am alone.
No one to listen, no one who cares!
I am never idle, never still,
Yet I do nothing. Just filling time,
Filling the void within.
Loneliness is violent, never quiet,
Never silent. It throbs and pulses,
Deafening; but who can hear?
I have so much, yet I have nothing.
I am surrounded by emptiness, artificiality.
What should I do? Who do I ask?
I have only myself to make a dialogue
between soul and mind.
Is there really no one? There are many
With lives of their own. I would not interfere.
I must give, care, protect:
I must be there!
Life has changed: it adjusts,
Taking what we have. Appearances lie,
Deceiving those who watch and speculate,
Believing that all is well.
Outwardly, I convey that all is well.
I am a woman, who is competent,
Confident, independent, strong.
But sometimes the loneliness overcomes me!
This poem was the first ever to be written by me, in 1988 - I am now 81 years old
Written just two months after receiving a diagnosis of Parkinson's, during a period of my husband’s regular absence from home, for business reasons, and my daughter’s recent marriage and subsequent move to her new home, there was no one to help me come to terms with my diagnosis. Never before had I experienced such feelings of loneliness and bewilderment; and thankfully, never since!
Suddenly, I felt the urge to put my thoughts in writing. Words flooded my mind. 1988 was a time before the computer became a major, necessary commodity in every home, a time when the biro was king, and thoughts were delivered in long hand. What would our grand children think of this?
The words simply flew to the page, almost without me having to consider placing them, and I was reminded of Wordsworth’s words,”Poetry is the spontaneous outburst of powerful feelings!”
Having completed the bare bones of the poem so effortlessly in fifteen minutes, on completion, my anxiety and depression had been eradicated completely.
And I am still writing, but with one finger on my left hand! After 40 years of Parkinson’s, that digit is the only working part of my body: with one exception. My brain still works, which is most unusual for a person who has had Parkinson’s for as many years I have.
I believed that poetry may have therapeutic benefits: and there began my relationship with poetry, so I continue writing.
Best wishes to all readers.