Let your rage explode
Do not try
To target or control it.
You are too wise
And real
And wonderful
To let it consume you
Leaving ashes in its wake,
So let it break,
For now.
Allow the ugly out,
Break, throw, shout
Until you can taste the angry blood
In the back of your throat,
Behind your teeth.
Underneath
all the anger is your healing,
It will surface,
You will start to come back.
You have to fully release the hate
Before you can let it go,
Otherwise, you will only purge it's shadow,
Leaving the real thing
Crouched in a corner of your hurting heart,
Waiting for a chance
To do more damage,
To destroy you.

I do not need to hide anything here,
He will never read
Anything by this haunted harlot.
Poetry escapes him
And eludes him.
Even the most obvious
of scribblings
Furrows his brow
And makes
His head ache.

And yet, he knows the facts
He knows the truth,
And must know that this is where I come,
To purge and re-emerge?
How can he not want to read,
To see,
To understand?
We will never fully know each other -
Perhaps, as he suggests,
This is for the best.

My skin is prickling,
Icy and on fire,
Is this called revulsion,
Or desire?

I'm bruised.
When will I heal?
Best to be numb
Or good to feel?

Tell me, are you aching?
Are you raw?
The thought is making
Me want more.

And in the end,
You cannot give
Me any reason
Still, to live.

I must know if you are thinking of me
Constantly.
Remember how, on that night
Pre-Armageddon,
I asked you if you'd thought about me?
You replied "constantly"
And I was undone.
Now, I need to know,
Is it still the same, for you?
Or have you managed to expel me
From your psyche?

I can't stop thinking of you,
You're ever present.
You've cut me out, and shut me out,
But your photos remain,
Luring me in.
I torture myself,
As we once sweetly tortured each other.
Lover
that never was,
I must know if you are thinking of me
Constantly.

Summer drops warm rain,
Sultry breeze singing your name.
I am wet and hot.

I wanted to confide in you yesterday,
Tell you why I'm so pale, and shaky,
Ask you if you've ever been here,
In this hellish place.

I wanted you to tell me
Yes, yes, you're human,
Not a monster
Just a fragile being,
Let you pull my head onto your lap
And stroke my hair.

But close though we are,
You will never be able to tell me your secrets,
Though I know you have them.
You cared for me in the way you always have,
And always will,
The only way you can,
A bowl of chicken stew, and a hot water bottle.
This is how you love me,
And it does help,
But I wish we could talk about how it has been for you,
And is right now, for me,
I wish we could share how we have failed,
And learned from our mistakes.

Mum...do you know why I'm so pale, and shaky?
Are you wishing you could talk to me, too?
It's okay, Mum, I love your chicken stew.

I have a gift for you, it is my heart.
Put it away, safely, think of it often
with affection.
I ask for nothing in return
But your promise to cherish my gift.

You write and I melt,
Spread helplessly, slippery
Exquisite oil slick.

Baby is enthusiastically
Embracing toilet training.
I have taken her out to the bathroom
Twenty times this morn,
But she still managed to miss the moment -
There's a puddle on the floor.
There she stands, looking down,
Trembly legs,
Growing frown,
Realisation sinks in...
I see the heartbreak begin to crash over her in waves,
And rush to pick her up,
To reassure her and console her
For the thousandth time.
The heartbreak recedes,
The smile comes out from behind the clouds,
Phew...I got there in time!

Here is one more love poem
For the one I love.
Just one more; except that’s not quite true,
There will be many more.
I write them in my heart
I write them in my head
I write them across his lips with my own
As I dream him up, as I take him down
As he follows me, into my dreams.
I sing them to him, softly
And I hope that he hears,
I cry them to him, sadly,
And I know he feels those tears.
I laugh them to him; we gaze into each others
smiling eyes, and understand,
That this is how we are
This is what we do
This is how we love.

No trickling but a throbbing
Sluggish
Reluctant
Unfluid
Animating force

Memories resurface
And physically hit me
Like a slap in the face.
Invisible bruises are no less agonizing;
Purple flowers blooming in my heart.

A poem is a living thing,
Born of love or hate, joy, or despair.
When it is received, and loved by a reader,
It reaches it's full potential,
Matures, becomes layered and complex, almost sentient.
Has relationships, prompts reactions, stirs emotions,
And such a poem, being lost, must be mourned, will be grieved.
Indulge me in my sadness, for these treasured words
Conceived and birthed with such joy that they overflowed the page
and ecstatically overwhelmed me.
I know, they were just words, I know...
But this grief is familiar. It reminds. It rewinds.
And I am back in a place I do not care to revisit,
Waiting to be haunted, by "it wasn't meant to be".

I don't miss you.

Every feeling you had
mirrored my own
uncannily.
You are still my sweet obsession,
Which means, I believe,
That I am yours.

One of us will crumble, stumble,
Into contact.
One of us will come.
And so, I need not miss you,
I am certain, somehow, that we are not done.
You still have a part to play in my life,

You're still there
You still care.

I am a cyberwoman
Delete, delete, delete.
It's true, I do remove
The too, too much.
I rearrange, and chop, and change,
I know that you will always read
The sigh between the lines,
And maybe you, too have things that you have written,
then hidden away.
Maybe, you, too, are frightened of
The neversaid, the ever left unread.

So

Crushed
By sadness that
I cannot

Breathe

So

Weighed
With guilt that
I cannot

Move

So

Wracked
With pain that
I cannot

Try

So
Overwhelmed
That
I cannot

Cry.

Laughing, rain-drenched, blue,
We remove each others' clothes
It's time to get warm.

The air is crisp and sharp.
Steal your arms around me.
Cup me with your hands
And share my warmth.
I may shiver,
But not because I'm cold;
Miniature suns
light me from within.
I am glowing, glowing
Throwing off heat
Fiercely on fire
Flaring with desire
Burn here with me
Stoke the flames
We'll blaze so strongly
I think that we might melt.

He is begging me to touch him.
He wants me to take him in my arms, and love him.
“Please, do this” His eyes say, “Nuzzle and caress”
But he sits there, guarded,
Unwilling to make the first move.
He can’t take his eyes off me.
Transfixed, he trembles, wanting this so badly,
I wish I could reassure him
But If I try to move towards him, he will flee,
So I wait for him to make a leap of faith.
There is nothing to fear, pussycat,
Let me stroke you, let me hear you purr.

I have never met you,
And yet, I know how you taste;
Like hope, and dreams, and
Like my love
You taste like my love.
You taste like the first warm wet raindrop
Of an English summer storm,
Like release, and peace,
You taste like my love.
You sound like a crackling fire on a frozen winters day,
A seagull's cry above a wild, unsheltered bay,
You sound like my love.
You feel like the sun's first gentle kiss,
Rebirth, and warmth; you feel like this,
You feel like my love.
I have never met you
And yet, I know how you smell, taste, sound and feel
Like my love
My love, my love.

There is a red stain
Taunting me, scrubbing won't help.
Reminder of rage.

The best thing about parties
Is the dancing.
I would like to dance right from the start,
But no-one else is ready,
So I wait for the ***** and bonhomie to kick in,
And then I start it off with a giggle and a wiggle,
And soon everyone's gyrating, sweating, laughing, into it.
Nothing makes me feel more alive,
More in the moment.
More truly myself.
I'm an outrageous exhibitionist,
But it isn't even that -
It's the beat, the truth, the tune, the words,
Leading to the movement,
It's pure interpretation, clear communication,
The essence of party,
The absence of sad.

I can only
Creaky speaky,
I am all of
Under done,
Mouth is full of paindrops,
Pitter patter,
One by one.

I am stomach sinkdown,
Licking sicking,
Thunder lung,
Heart is want a
humpy thumping,
Never then he
Comes among.

Yes, I am coming,
Just as you knew I would, I
cannot resist you.

Everybody loves you
At the start. At the start
The world's your friend,
They all leave you
In the end.
Nobody is yours
Nobody will stay
Everyone will walk away.

He has a Rubik's cube smile,
And his mind is a labyrinth.
Only he knows the exit
Only he knows the combination
That will bring all the colours in line.

Amidst the ultimate creative act
I am written
Into and onto and out of myself.
Cursive curving down my spine,
Skillful penstrokes, muse divine,
I am your masterpiece,
And you will be my opus.
My mouth is a new page,
My tongue your first chapter.
Lay me across your lap, open me,
And read, and write, with pure delight
What we create
Our love, our fate.

I love my husband.
This is an absolute truth.
I betrayed him,
That is another.
That he knows all, and can forgive me
Is a brutal truth, a rueful truth, a truth that
probably perplexes many.
To love someone, truly, is to understand them.
Honesty becomes the only option,
and forgiveness is redundant.
He knows that I was captivated,
He knows of this hold on me still.
He loves me.
If he knew that I would be happier elsewhere,
Then he would let me go.
He loves me, and he knows
That is not the right journey.
He guides me, gently, away from the treacherous fall
Back to the safety of a better way,
For me, and for us.
He knows the absolute truth
And so do I.