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rebecca-askewPoems
She had never said it first, and it is doubtful she ever will. Maybe it was the first disappointment... She danced with her Dad, a four year old toe head standing on top of his feet, uncoordinated, hanging on for dear life! A simple, child's mind could never comprehend why little a  girl could not marry her Daddy. Maybe it was The First. He never said it, neither did she. They were never in love, nor did they pretend to be. Maybe it was The Taker, The Worker, or The Money Maker, on a cold Christmas or a snowy New Year's Eve. Maybe it was pieces, parts of all of these. Each one who came, soon went, another brick in her tower of solitude. A fortress built, no man could penetrate. You could have her, sure... But you could never have her. You could take her out for seafood and wine, and hold her hair back when she puked. You could take her to a Cubs game, hot dogs, beer, and Harry Caray in the seventh inning stretch... But still, you could never have her. In the morning, you, or you, or you had to go. You, or you, or you could never get too close. All the while she was waiting, watching and waiting... Riding time, longing for, and craving the one to  bring the fire, the one who could wrap her in his flame.
0
Jul 20, 2019
Jul 20, 2019 at 9:30 PM UTC
The 'L' Word
She had never said it first, and it is doubtful she ever will. Maybe it was the first disappointment... She danced with her Dad, a four year old toe head standing on top of his feet, uncoordinated, hanging on for dear life! A simple, child's mind could never comprehend why little a  girl could not marry her Daddy. Maybe it was The First. He never said it, neither did she. They were never in love, nor did they pretend to be. Maybe it was The Taker, The Worker, or The Money Maker, on a cold Christmas or a snowy New Year's Eve. Maybe it was pieces, parts of all of these. Each one who came, soon went, another brick in her tower of solitude. A fortress built, no man could penetrate. You could have her, sure... But you could never have her. You could take her out for seafood and wine, and hold her hair back when she puked. You could take her to a Cubs game, hot dogs, beer, and Harry Caray in the seventh inning stretch... But still, you could never have her. In the morning, you, or you, or you had to go. You, or you, or you could never get too close. All the while she was waiting, watching and waiting... Riding time, longing for, and craving the one to  bring the fire, the one who could wrap her in his flame.
Mr. Mike Griffith once told me this was a good poem. It has been a year since I have posted anything... I hope this helps get my words moving again.
Written by
rebecca-askew
American
Jul 20, 2019
Jul 20, 2019 at 9:30 PM UTC
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