Ponderings on paper to words on the web. A self challenge to write one piece of poetry every day. AKA The Passionate Poem Project.
You said you’d love me forever
however
Your affection was ephemeral
Yet I found comfort in the pattern of your fleeting and if close my eyes tight enough and try my damnedest to block out each and every time you left I could maybe sew together the short temporary stints you were here and only then could I say we had something long lasting
A fragmented forever
You’d always make sure I got the last piece, the last bite, knowing how much I love you and food and not so much the sharing of either. Your fork would offer me the last taste of a delectable dinner and without question, the dessert.
Always. Until now. And I’m left confused and hungry and with my mouth half open as I watch you eat the last bite.
How convenient it is that I’m an invertebrate when it comes to you;
A complete sucker.
I always loved you more.
With
1, 2, 3
hearts.
You have an art
For breaking them.
You’ve broken me;
Thrice.
Bleeding blue.
All I wanted to do was hold you in my
Arms Arms Arms Arms
Arms Arms Arms Arms
You always slip away.
Not today.
You thought you’d hold me under,
and watch me drown.
This is my natural habitat;
I will pull you down.
I’m not what you think.
The ocean is my paper.
You cannot escape my ink
April showers slowly tap tap tap against the glass, escalating to a rapid pitter patter beat dancing on the roof. The wind tries to keep up with my thoughts, running fast across the dark sky, rattling the windows as it chases the night. Howling and whistling and weaving between trees.
The moon peaks out from time to time from behind the curtain of clouds; shadows dance intermittently on my floor.
In between tangos , the dark and I exchange secrets. It’s 4am and the storm subsides.
I catch a glimpse of the moon; nonchalantly disrupting the dark, stealing sleep and pulling tides. A slight envy of how full he is; while I lay here so empty.
I wonder if the moon watches me too, knowing I won’t sleep and we can sit in the dark silence together until he slowly gives way to one more day I have to face.
It’s the cold. The quiet. The emptiness.
It’s how the bed now seems infinite.
It’s the way that I don’t have to fight for the covers anymore.
It’s how I miss your snoring.
It’s how my feet no longer find their nook.
It’s how the empty chair tauntingly sits at the table in your spot.
It’s how I still take out two cups for coffee.
It’s how I pour one cup but leave the one out … just incase.
It’s endless glances at the door. I
It’s the cold. The quiet. The emptiness.
The Wait.
Who knew it could be so heavy.
The scariest monsters are not
hiding in our closets or under our beds
They crawl under our skin and
get into our heads
They don’t have claws or sharp fangs
More like straight white teeth and
manicures hands
Lurking on the dark side
trying to pull you in
They’ll never win
These creatures walk amongst us
in fancy suits, in plain sight
Looking for a fight
Serpent tongues shed ugly truths
True colours shine through
Condescending cowards
Their sweet soon turns sour
Their smiles are sinister
Intentions are cruel
Breaking the rules
of how to be decent
Camouflaged and Masqueraded
Hoping it will hide how jaded
they’ve become
Rummaging through rack after rack of items that were once loved;
now discarded and forgotten.
Purged.
Lost the lustre if bfeing brand new
Once someone’s favourite jeans and sweaters.
Perhaps they found something a little better.
Some a little faded, worn
Memories knitted into the fabric; sewn into the seems
Now recluse on their hangers,
Feeling used
As they are sifted through
Day after day
Wondering their worth.
If they will ever be someone’s favourite sweater again.
I’m not some sort of
all you can eat buffet
window display
Save for a rainy day
bored and want to play
Walk away
I’ve just put a batch of your favourite cookies in the oven.
I wipe my hands on my apron.
They pause
remembering the last time you were..
Undoing my apron so you could do unspeakable things to me right here on this counter.
I Busy my hands with tidying
My eyes see your face in the flour.
They pause
Remembering how the flour dance around us as we made love on the counter.
Now all I make are cookies.
Your favourite cookies.
I’ve burnt the cookies
Growing older and wiser…but not ‘up’.
I won’t follow the leader.
Tag. You’re it.
Responsibility Rebellion.
Crayola warpaint.
Play doh and molding minds.
Making puppets and construction paper for masks of all the people I pretend to be.
11th hour lights the fire for our rocket ships;
I need s p a c e.
Making hills out of bills
Still Queen of my castle
Making our own happily ever after.
I was never meant to tame my wild;
I am as much the mother as I am the child.
The Passionate Poem Project 