A woman of substance

I'm sceptical of the Dutch
One of them stole my beloved
He was a painter
Made her beautiful on canvas
And she fell in love
I wrote a poem on a torn
Piece of paper-
And I’m not a Lutheran-
Nailed it on her door
The usual stuff of the aching heart
The painter got arthritis
In his hands  
Could not hold a paint brush
She sent him to nursing home
And now she smiles at me

There are no roses on a sailors grave,
No lillees on an ocean wave.
The only tributes are the seagulls sweeps,
And the tear drops that the lover weeps.

Maybe I'm not sick enough
Of sad, beautiful girls.

They wear misery so well.
Like pouty lips,
And blushy cheeks.
Swollen eyes,
And little mouth noises-
A siren's call.

I'm a ******* ******* at heart.

It's pretty sick
Of her
To humor me like this.
To let me be the joke.

Doesn't she know
That I would sabotage myself
Just to hear her laugh?
Just to feel wanted?
Just to feel worthy?

Just to make my skin feel bearable?

Doesn't she know
She's the movie screen
I project my affections
Onto?

Sniveling silver.

Doesn't she know
She's my one chance
At feeling normal?

At feeling anything at all?

Doesn't she know
I'm tired?

I don't want to wait anymore.

I'm pretty sick
Of myself.
I need her laughter
To drown out the silence.

I'm so uneasy alone.

Their wet eyes are interchangeable.
A series of lips,
Cooling cheeks.
Blue mouths-
And their captivating sounds.
I laugh.

I'm pretty foolish.
She's pretty sick.