Young Writers Society

Note: This poem style is called a glosa. It's where you take four previously published lines from music, literature, or prose and write four stanzas that close with the lines.

-- ‘Cause there’s no comfort in the waiting room
Just nervous pacers bracing for bad news
And then the nurse comes ‘round and everyone lifts their heads
But I’m thinking of what Sarah said
- Death Cab for Cutie --

No windows, trapped
stabbed by the plastic and deafened by the silence.
Underneath the thick wads of antiseptic, I smell
stagnant air and sorrow.
Outdated furniture and a broken television,
there's nothing to hold, nothing to grasp,
nothing to provide me with the hope I need.
‘Cause there’s no comfort in the waiting room.

There never is, never was,
ever since it all began and I held her hand,
fed her the optimism for the impossible.
Breathing without lungs, fear bubbling on my tongue;
I believe with no hope, alone, afraid.
I need her hand, her soft skin on mine,
her voice, her eyes, her everything.
But there's no one here to watch me cry,
no one here but me and her father,
just nervous pacers bracing for bad news.

I've never had to live with no meaning,
never expected a heart to beat
after being shattered into dust.
Never expected to have a heart to break in the first place.
Just a body, a soul, a burning passion for a goal
that I knew I'd never reach.
Just like her; she knew she was beat,
but she fought and she fought,
she never once gave in.
She knew there was two ways of going,
and she took The Hard Way.
I think of all the memories -- they burn my heart
and get caught in my throat, but I hold them close.
And then the nurse comes ‘round and everyone lift their heads.

I know Sarah's gone before the nurse says it,
mouthing her words of apology.
Her father is frozen, stunned
his mouth open in a silent scream.
The memories give me hope,
courage, even
so I place my hand on his shoulder.
He turns to me and whispers, "she was right all along;
she knew from the start she wasn't going to win."
The nurse clears her throat and asks timidly
if we'd like to hear her last words.
I answer for her father; yes, yes we would
and the nurse takes a deep breath.
"Tell my daddy I love him. And tell Oliver
Death's not the winner of this fight just yet.
Love conquers all, so keep your fists up."
I'm no longer lost,
lonely, sure.
But now I know.
I know the memories will sting, like picking open
a scab. But all scabs heal over,
all scars tell a story.
Her father sobs and whimpers something,
sounds like "poetic,"
but I'm thinking of what Sarah said.