Bad poetry written for the ex.
Getting out of a relationship is hell. Rereading the poetry from that relationship is worse.
Sometimes when I have nothing else
Nothing else to live for or to enjoy
When I feel my insides twisting into little
Tiny
Knots
When I curl up into a ball
Crying because I can’t even remember
The last time you held me
Sometimes I remember how it was
Your smell and the way you were pressed against me
Always warm like home
Warmth is something deep inside
Locked up with a key
Hidden in these shadowy and uncertain depths
Your knowing eyes
Smile that lights up your face
Arms that encircle me
Soul so deep
Inner beauty
With unspoken secrets that we share
In the darkness, when we lie entwined
My safety net
I’m the trapeze artist who isn’t afraid of jumping
Right into you
And you would hug me to you
Only you
Can unlock
This warmth that I so long for
I love you.
Jagged pages torn from the fruit of our labors--
A book of many exciting colors and adventures--
Spoke knowledgably of life after this one.
There, we are happy as two devils
In a certain sixteenth century painting
Entitled, The Sins of St. Aurellius.
As his saintliness burned in brimstone,
Sulphurous fumes and the charred remnants of bone
Wafting past the toasted almond rock formations,
Two devils danced a waltz
Which was possibly once in fashion.
Would you dance with me as they danced,
Uninhibited by pretense
And the clothing of those damned to life?
Would you throw yourself against the warm rock
To celebrate the fire you,
So carefully and cleverly, cultivated?
Close your eyes, and you can almost feel
A roughness brush the smooth of your flesh,
The sand between your bony toes
Blistering the life into your dance.
It is a wonder to me that in a place such as Earth,
Where lies are the juice we drink
And the pulp we savor,
When secrets are the sweet and heady taste
On the tongue of a lover,
I have found a soulmate worthy of a truthful digression
Into a place which many consider the stronghold of evil,
But which is, to me, the only place
Where nudists waltz to the pulsing of fire on rock
And the light of passion never dies.
Is this poem happy or sad? I felt dissatisfied when I wrote it.
Sometimes when I have nothing else
Nothing else to live for or to enjoy
When I feel my insides twisting into little
Tiny
Knots
When I curl up into a ball
Crying because I can’t even remember
The last time you held me
Sometimes I remember how it was
Your smell and the way you were pressed against me
Always warm like home
Warmth is something deep inside
Locked up with a key
Hidden in these shadowy and uncertain depths
Your knowing eyes
Smile that lights up your face
Arms that encircle me
Soul so deep
Inner beauty
With unspoken secrets that we share
In the darkness, when we lie entwined
My safety net
I’m the trapeze artist who isn’t afraid of jumping
Right into you
And you would hug me to you
Only you
Can unlock
This warmth that I so long for
I love you.
Jagged pages torn from the fruit of our labors--
A book of many exciting colors and adventures--
Spoke knowledgably of life after this one.
There, we are happy as two devils
In a certain sixteenth century painting
Entitled, The Sins of St. Aurellius.
As his saintliness burned in brimstone,
Sulphurous fumes and the charred remnants of bone
Wafting past the toasted almond rock formations,
Two devils danced a waltz
Which was possibly once in fashion.
Would you dance with me as they danced,
Uninhibited by pretense
And the clothing of those damned to life?
Would you throw yourself against the warm rock
To celebrate the fire you,
So carefully and cleverly, cultivated?
Close your eyes, and you can almost feel
A roughness brush the smooth of your flesh,
The sand between your bony toes
Blistering the life into your dance.
It is a wonder to me that in a place such as Earth,
Where lies are the juice we drink
And the pulp we savor,
When secrets are the sweet and heady taste
On the tongue of a lover,
I have found a soulmate worthy of a truthful digression
Into a place which many consider the stronghold of evil,
But which is, to me, the only place
Where nudists waltz to the pulsing of fire on rock
And the light of passion never dies.
Is this poem happy or sad? I felt dissatisfied when I wrote it.