Harsh

Harsh Nov 2012

I wish I caught chickenpox two months and two weeks ago.
Who would have imagined the painful discomfort,
to have a direct correlation with remodelling my rationality.
Even after a speedy recovery and two weeks later, the scars
on my otherwise genetically-blessed-clear-face, and all over
my rather well shaped body symbolises a deep story.
Life is not worth wasting on those who don't care enough.
As insomnia struck night after night, mixing thoughts with
nightmares and episodes of Vampire Diaries excessively
watched through out the day on a laptop balanced on my
torso as I laid on my sick bed, I had plenty of time to think.
I thought about how Mr. X only contacts me when he
needs comfort, solace, assurance, care, all on his terms.
Mr. Y, only to gloat how he just had *** or if he needed
an ego boost, and he stopped texting all together long ago.
Mr. Z, who I thought was going too well to be true bailed
after our first date got cancelled due to me catching the pox.
All in all at every stage in my life for the past decade,
I have wasted my time on a Mr. Wrong and it's pathetic.
Apart from having a date on Valantine's day, making out,
endless string of inspiration to write shallow poetry,
I have gained nothing but heart break and sad memories.
The one time my mother would quote Beyonce to say,
they all turned out to be the best thing I never had.

This poem is the sole property of me and cannot be copied or used without permission. [Copyright G.H. Rodrigo 20/11/2011]

Harsh Nov 2012

To the man who broke my friend

Even though we have never met I want to thank you,
for all the things you did and didn't do, for not being true.
For scaring, scarring, smothering and hurting, for no cause,
for making her the women three times the one she was.
For stealing her innocence as she gave in unconditionally,
only to leave and return, threatening to abandon, ruthlessly,
as you played your psychological games, with her life and mind,
manipulating her to believe you're the best she would ever find.

The possibility of sharing ancestry with you, brings me shame,
so repulsive enough to consider changing my family name.
Knowing this relationship was destroying her from within,
being the egoistic ******* you are, continuing instead of leaving.
As she became the compensation for your childhood deprivations,
did you overlook the possibility of this not being the solution?
Draining her passion with conceited affection, at your discretion
for the sake of your satisfaction, but here's a revelation.

She was never going to cheat, deceive or leave, could you not see,
that she was not a part of the vicious cycle of your family?
On the contrary, growing up in this drama, unfortunately,
you became your father, the man you never wanted to be.
Gaining liberation, building walls of caution, she will be fine.
God and patience will lavishly reward her, when it's the right time.
I wish you wealth, health, fortune and a long life of prosperity,
because it is fairly obvious, there is no hope for you in eternity.

This poem is the sole property of me and cannot be copied or used without permission. [Copyright G.H. Rodrigo 04/11/2011]

Harsh Nov 2012

Logical Haircut

The kitchen scissors met my hair,
before the bathroom mirror.
I had run out of cigarettes.
He didn't text back.

This poem is the sole property of me and cannot be copied or used without permission. [Copyright G.H. Rodrigo 01/11/2011]

Harsh Oct 2012

*****

The reason why,
he will never forget,
and
I will never remember,
our first kiss.

This poem is the sole property of me and cannot be copied or used without permission. [Copyright G.H. Rodrigo 31/10/2011]

Harsh Oct 2012

Maybe a love poem...

If I took the lyrics of 'I can't make you love me' and 'See beneath your beautiful',
remixed them into a rap tainted with Eminem's vengeance and Ed Sheeran's soul,
and plagiarized Beethoven's most romantic composition to bring it to life,
maybe I would come a little closer to expressing my true feelings, if at all.
To tell you, though you already know, that I am in desperate need of saving.
I'm showing all the symptoms such as losing control, sense, rationality, sight,
and only you can cure me, not because of the doctor you're studying to be,
but because you are both my Superman and kryptonite.

I spend my days searching for a replacement, an alternative, a pastime,
but of course it's impossible as nothing can substitute perfection.
So I wrestle insomnia to dream of you, but I don't, I'm wide awake,
it's a nightmare. Then I pray only to behold that I'm denied salvation.
However as an intelligent, smart, independent young woman,
with my hair down, head held high and hips swinging to the beat,
I try to channel my energy elsewhere. Amidst all the positive thinking
tequila takes over and I return to my cold bed, with aching feet.

Ideally I want to be the woman you love, or realistically your ****,
on the contrary I'm Neo from Matrix who took both pills.
Bewitched by your once in a blue moon texts, ignoring the red siren
in my head blaring, "nothing makes you stronger, it only kills!"
I have nothing exceptional to offer, so I do not know how to pitch
my average intelligence, talent, wit, personality and body.
Unless God, who you have no faith in, by some miracle
leads you to this, yet another one of my mediocre poetry.

This poem is the sole property of me and cannot be copied or used without permission. [Copyright G.H. Rodrigo 30/10/2011]

Harsh Oct 2012

Night outs

Loneliness,
disguised in high heels,
tequila
and loud music.

This poem is the sole property of me and cannot be copied or used without permission. [Copyright G.H. Rodrigo 26/10/2011]

Harsh Oct 2012

Identity

Eventually,
my favourite cocktail turned out to be
a Cosmopolitan.

This poem is the sole property of me and cannot be copied or used without permission. [Copyright G.H. Rodrigo 26/10/2011]