I know you claim I’m gutless,
That I don’t say what’s on my mind,
But you just lack the mental wherewithal
To read between my lines.
Your attempts at clumsy sucker-punch
Text messages aimed at my head,
Will never vitate my ego much,
Without polysyllabic words instead.
I admit it may be perniferous,
To be consistently superfluous
With every transcription writ,
But no use of simplified language
Will make up for the F in your wit.
All those times my English teacher
Critiqued my poetry,
Yet could never see,
That all along,
I was never writing poems.
I was righting wrongs.
Putting things inside my mind
Back where they belonged.
So if there’s nothing in my ‘poetry’,
That you can see..
There’s no standard meter,
Find in each it’s melody.
Note: Almost every poem posted so far contains a line ‘heavily inspired’ by a line or few words from a song.
This ‘line’ is the foundation for the rest of the poem, and usually the poems ‘meter’ is written to time / match the song the founding line is from.
Bonus points if you see them. If you reread the poem to fit the song, it will click.
The things you said
Have left me stunned.
I wouldn’t say those words
But the knives go in
And blood will run,
For you were not
The only one.
The worst is not how
They cut to bone.
But the feeling now,
I’m all alone.
You’ve said things
You can’t take back,
Then ask me
To forgive you that.
You act as though
There’s nought amiss,
But I don’t know
How to deal with this.
You act as though
There’s nothing wrong,
But everything’s wrong.
I lean against the station wall,
Tethered to a painful weariness.
This recent storm of your volatile emotions
Left my soul wet and cold,
Bruised deep within every atom.
I close my eyes.
Unwanted but not unexpected,
My mind replays the scene.
My confusion. Your shouts.
‘Jesus, Alice, you and your fucking metaphors!’
For some reason, I recall your eyes most clearly.
Flashing swirls of anger and shattered sanity.
But without my fucking metaphors,
No one could relate, nor understand me.
Assuming instead secretive flickers
Of mockery. Of stupidity or foolishness.
Not this, this multi-faceted tapestry
I try so hard to complete every day.
But they look at me as though they
Had just discovered coloured thread.
Today is an endless field
Of mud and broken stone.
Beneath an uncaring sky,
I am alone.
In my hand a jagged flint
Wet with blood and dew.
I think I killed my final friend.
I think she killed me too.