Inspiration: I wrote this poem one night after I witnessed my grandfather having an interior monologue; he assumed I was asleep

, but I was awake and alert- just with my eyes closed so he could continue talking. I didn't want him to stop- he rarely spoke at all, so hearing his voice had been satisfying, maybe that's why I continued to play possum: I wanted to hear him, his voice. What I had initially perceived to be excessive rambling, actually turned out to be eloquently spoken phrases that echoed throughout the darkness of the living r oom. It was my turn to have the couch; every night, my brother and I alternated turns sleeping on the couch, or either on the floor with pillows. Unfortunately, it w as "floor and pillow" night for my brother- but obviously, I didn't complain. The couch was about three to four feet across from my grandfather's mechanical h ospital bed; the floor was obviously right below, between the bed and the couch. I heard him that night, I heard him contemplating his quandary toward his feelin gs about tomorrow, about his emotions. I listened. I Wonder. . . I wonder what my morning will be like today: Will I be in an exuberant mood, willing to take my medication and eat my food? Or will I be ornery, combative, and isolated, resorting to silence because of so rdid frustration? I wonder. . . I wonder what my afternoon will be like today: Will it be like the morning? Quite similar? Maybe the same? When I felt the need to disseminate anger, hatred, and blame. I wonder. . . I wonder what my evening will be like tonight: Will I give any effort, all of my might? Or will I succumb to mental weakness, give up on the fight? I wonder. . . My plight with this sickness is self-degrading, pleasant thoughts- and even memories are now fading into vile recollections of nothingness. Pure bliss has been substituted by a death kiss planted from Cancer's lips. So I sit here alone, yearning to know, what my day will be like today? I wonder. . . By: Lamar Crawford

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