On my way I roamed and wandered, till he turned my head.
It wasn’t till that moment that I realized I’d been dead.
His eyes, that spark, a newfound brand new beating heart.
I showed him mine, he showed me his, and we held love together.
Our love, our souls, our fears, our goals, we were birds of one feather.
With many birds we roamed the air and birds all lovely colours.
Our feathers matched so perfectly.
I thought that it would always be.
I trusted him, he trusted me.
But oh, those birds of all those lovely colours.
On our way we roamed and wandered, till he turned his head.
And what was once alive, went back to being dead.
I poked and prodded, tried to spark my lifeless now not beating heart.
I showed him mine, but he kept his, as he set mine on fire.
It screamed, it turned, it popped, it burned, smoking with desire.
Lifeless, stupefied, with awe, I watched it burn to ashes.
Those ashes now live deep inside.
In memory of the love I tried.
The days I had nothing to hide.
But nobody would ever know,
Unless I went and told them so
I smile, I laugh, I live, I learn, I love to fuck, I sing.
But everywhere I go there is a secret that I bring.
So if you want to love me, know, you shouldn’t even start,
For nobody can love a girl with ashes for a heart.
I didn’t like this poem at first and I thought it was the structure and the pacing, which it is a little, but more so, it oversimplifies a very complex issue. Hearts don’t usually get permanently shattered in one fell swoop. We are stronger than that. But if we are repeatedly denied love, scorned, burned, hurt, not just by our lovers, but by our families, friends, strangers, we get turned off of opening up and being truly bare naked and vulnerable. It’s like we just don’t have the strength to be exposed to anyone, and the hurt is so deep, raw, and ugly that we don’t want to show it, or share it, or spread it. As bad as we may want love and a kindred connection, that pain pricks up fresh every time, and the risk never seems worth the reward. Sex, or fucking, can be an alternative method for experiencing pleasure and intimacy, without any risk.
I don’t hate the poem, but I wish it dug a little deeper than it does. It flows alright and it rhymes, so it is technically a poem. It feels really good to be writing again. Thank you for reading.