I would put a disclaimer in here about my views but I’m not really fussed about what people think. Title is going through transitions. For now let’s call it Two roads . Click the link to read 🙂
Provisionary title because I want something better!
But yes. New spoken word! Enjoy!
For years she mistook longing
The ache of yearning became
An almost-pleasant solution to romanticism.
You should have told her loving doesn’t
Hurt this much,
That she did not have to tolerate fingers pressed
Into her wounds.
That always yearning, never questioning
Is not the twenty-first century romance.
That emotion is not a cocoon
Wrapped around to save from nakedness.
That “love hurts” is bullshit.
But she’s fallen in love with infatuation.
She’s aroused by the distance between them
She has forgotten all the answers,
Left sweet and bitter
Like rotting fruit.
You should have told my darling
That love shouldn’t hurt like this
That disappointment is not a lover’s feast
That her emotions are not a one-way inconvenience
You should have told my darling
Love was never meant to be unrequited.
TW: Sexual Assault
But that afternoon he asked himself, with his infinite capacity for illusion, if such pitiless indifference might not be a subterfuge for hiding the torments of love.
Gabriel García Márquez, Love in the Time of Cholera
You mined her pizza-stuffed body unreservedly,
Equal parts violent,
Equal parts tender.
She didn’t tell you it hurt.
She was just grateful you remembered her name.
You were experiment number three,
Packing and unpacking her,
Stuffing her hesitant, ragdoll limbs with optimistic greed.
The doctor asks, was it penetrative?
She’s unsure what to say,
Because you were mental above physical,
Spiritual, above mental.
Today your face is sun-kissed and carefree,
Today she realises you penetrated her soul,
And she cries, curled like a snail’s shell,
Because – well, you wanted to talk and she didn’t.
She should [will] stop living by the rules.
She was unsure whether her brothers and sisters would welcome her,
But she was taught to go through God, not man.
Man showed her law,
God showed her grace,
She slept free of shame.
But one month later, she feels her body,
All one hundred-and-something pounds of it,
It feels like guilt when it hangs
heavy like a burden.
He apologised –
No, not quite.
He was good at that – making his words sound apologetic
Without ever uttering the word.
“I hope you don’t think I took advantage.”
She infers, one year later,
That he sobered midway,
and decided continuing was a good idea.
He was experiment number one,
the reason for the others who followed.
Experiment number two cannot be remembered,
It is improper. Wrong. An act of betrayal.
But she needs to remember, at least once.
She remembers the fear of the word “no”.
She is sorry for the hypocrisy,
And she is sorry that he was your husband.
And she is perplexed that his hands know a body,
ashamed of its own mother.
She’d never rejected a man from the bed so assertively.
She is the common denominator,
And in this form she is free from didacticism,
free to blame herself.
The terrible paradox is that she is the experiment.
She always has been.
Her one-hundred-and-something body,
hanging heavy like wet clothes,
doesn’t know how to be otherwise.
I’m sharing a poem with you. 🙂 Happy World Poetry Day. I hope you love it. If you do, let me know!
It’s been a while since I wrote poetry. So here is a poem with an obnoxiously lengthy title, entitled ‘Entitled’ (for short).** If, like me, you enjoy reading things in PDF format (it just feels nicer) you can read the PDF version here: CLICK HERE FOR OBNOXIOUSLY TITLED POEM
If, unlike me, you’re not a total weirdo and have no preference, you can read the poem below 🙂 Have a good day people xx
*It’s not obnoxious if you acknowledge the obnoxiousness. In other words, the humble-brag never fails.
*’…title, entitled ‘Entitled’ may just about be grammatically correct. I am proud of myself.
ENTITLED: A RESOLUTION TO LIBERATE EMOTION AND MONOPOLISE NOTHING IN FIVE STAGES
One of my resolutions was to feel.
Yes. That all. To feel.
This Resolution Game has no rules.
How does one acknowledge and understand their anger?
How do I understand my pain, my sorrow or my joy?
Can I pass go? Can I collect two hundred?
Because after making my resolution,
I still censor my thoughts.
I still do not KNOW my thoughts.
Let me stay in jail, because I can’t bear the freedom.
There are a series of doors,
Some tried, tested.
Most – if we’re being honest, all – were locked.
You opened every one, peeked in, and poked about.
Doors left ajar have always pissed me off,
but I am not entitled to call you a bastard.
This is laughable.
Let’s make it six days,
Six days to die then be reborn.
It’s all about timing.
Hope hurts and hope hurts and hope hurts and
And the “what if’ burns.
You are dust.
You are words spoken by the greatest Poet.
Your life is a beautiful homage.
You do not create – you imitate, and that’s okay.
That’s the point.