Untitled
Sometimes I do get confused
About what the purpose of this whole thing is -
(My life, my one ruined and predictable life)
To please my ancestors?
(If so, I'm failing miserably)
Or just to please myself,
my audience, my friends?
Who are these fuckers anyway,
That I think they have some hold on me?
Sad and savage, I lash out.
At the walls, my audience, my self.
Summer came and went,
And the bloom was off the rose
Before I knew what it was for.
Now I think myself safe from the stares
Of hard-eyed men.
No one looks but those who know.
My protestations of innocence
Fall hollow on my own deaf ears.
Who the hell am I trying to fool?
The bloom is off the rose.
I get angry at the fading
And the coming of the Lonely Years.
The bloom is off the rose.
And the fruit hangs low and pendulous
From the too-sturdy branches of the tree.
Freckled with discontent
My pugnacious nose sniffs and searches
The air for easy victories
But the bloom is off the rose.
And the pruning overdue.
The sunlight burns through the lids
Of my midnight-loving eyes.
I close my eyes to the landscape
Grown hard with rocks and thorns.
And send my roots yet further down
To suck the syrup of self-hate.
The bloom is off the fucking rose.
Laurel Ashley Robbins
February 5, 2002
About what the purpose of this whole thing is -
(My life, my one ruined and predictable life)
To please my ancestors?
(If so, I'm failing miserably)
Or just to please myself,
my audience, my friends?
Who are these fuckers anyway,
That I think they have some hold on me?
Sad and savage, I lash out.
At the walls, my audience, my self.
Summer came and went,
And the bloom was off the rose
Before I knew what it was for.
Now I think myself safe from the stares
Of hard-eyed men.
No one looks but those who know.
My protestations of innocence
Fall hollow on my own deaf ears.
Who the hell am I trying to fool?
The bloom is off the rose.
I get angry at the fading
And the coming of the Lonely Years.
The bloom is off the rose.
And the fruit hangs low and pendulous
From the too-sturdy branches of the tree.
Freckled with discontent
My pugnacious nose sniffs and searches
The air for easy victories
But the bloom is off the rose.
And the pruning overdue.
The sunlight burns through the lids
Of my midnight-loving eyes.
I close my eyes to the landscape
Grown hard with rocks and thorns.
And send my roots yet further down
To suck the syrup of self-hate.
The bloom is off the fucking rose.
Laurel Ashley Robbins
February 5, 2002