You broke me you took me to the woodshed and you killed me your words shot me right in the heart  point blank range no remorse so cold oh baby why I loved you I adored you I'd give you the world but I guess that wasn't enough for you because you left me

You broke me you took me to the woodshed and you killed. Me your words shot me point blank range no remorse so cold what did I do to deserve this the only crime I committed was loving you too much you and yet I still love you even though you

You broke me you took me to the woodshed and you killed your words shot me point blank range no remorse and yet I loved you so much there's nothing I wouldn't do for you if you needed a shoulder to cry on I was there my love had no limits but I guess that wasn't enough for you because you

You broke me you took me to the woodshed and killed me your words shot me point blank range no remorse so cold oh baby why I love you I adored you I'd give you the world but I guess that wasn't enough because you left ......
A poverty of the imagination
Perhaps warrants thinking
Outside the box
In such a way Acrylics
Don't care one way or the other
That what they
Portray is the permanence of feelings.
I never loved you more.
This image shows just
By looking at it passion
Anger even by degrees
Is all mixed up with the desire
To have you fixed permanently
In the one pose I found
Submissive
Subjunctive
Where you are mine to kill.
It is a metaphor what isn't?
The lasting pleasure of you
Hanging in my studio
Throughout an otherwise
Depressionist period
Is I get to reach out
To that lovely smile I put there
And pop it
And pop it
And pop it.
Leaving you more and more
Like you fell from a tall building.
static
your mocking cruelty launches an assault upon my senses
I sense
a rupture in my identity,
seemingly irreparable

a vile joke
circling like a host of seagulls
in the blood red skies
their wasted cries rain upon the earth
and deems the seashells empty

filth
makes its way through my veins
pumping with a thousand symptoms of withdrawal
it's tempting to fall back
into
the
same
old
t o x i c p a t t e r n s
where you insensitively recall a remark

"you look like the lovechild of me and my former lover":
a mere remark
a line of text
the thought process of those who feel the urge to defile
in more ways than one

arrhythmia
shortage of breath
uncontrollable rage
acute panic
terror
the siren of my convoluted crying
and my spiraling trajectory

of (in) h u m a n e m o t i o n s

submerged in hot water and ancient blood
I turn to face myself in the glass
and envision a surface of stolen personalities
that have been forced upon me;
inducing a mad fever
and itching
to claw away what's left of me

yet
me
a kaleidoscope of stages
experienced by all of creation
I look
nothing like you
or your long string of hollow lovers

I
look like the ocean you can never dare swim in,
the fire-laced waves would turn you into ash;
I
look like the unappreciated art-piece in a desolate gallery
seducing a generation of raggedy-looking poets
more beautiful than you can ever be.
I
look like the phantom of the woman you will never be able to submerge,
with constructed hallucinations or manipulated memories-

no matter how many pigmented flowers bloom
no matter how many loved ones you bury.
That's a neat trick you do
The way you vanish from my life
Like you were never there
You'll have to do it again sometime
So I can learn it too
Then maybe I can teach it
To someone completely new
C Cavierre Jan 12
There is the anger, the fear, the bitterness that sprouts ironically
From the heart of care—
If only the heart can be cold; if only it can survive to be:
As cold as care can be.
Latin Jan 13
I bite down
bitter taste welling up under my tongue
since when did these sharp thoughts
become the norm
I spent years training myself
to taste sweet where there’s bitterness
like sticky sweet candy
instead, I became red wine
a hint of sweet, under a layer of tangents
it takes a certain tongue to learn my notes
I always loved the look of red wine
but each sip overwhelmed
maybe I will learn to love the taste
Confusion and frustration are present
We may be lost in the shuffle
Just get it together immediately
And move on the double
Nothing but pandemonium
Not a soul knows what is taking place
Some people are bound to run
And shield themselves from the bitter disgrace
Who are these people?

I baked them bread. I made them welcome
And they left shit and vomit on my lovely carpet.
They smiled as they stole my Gramma’s silver teapot
They pulled down the curtain in my dressing room
And mopped the bathroom floor with it

They each got a Jeep in ’59, parlayed it
To a better place to be and live
And perfect superior attitudes that
delegate those with rounded eyes
To the lonely space beneath contempt.

Who are these people?

I learned their songs and sang along
But they stole my record player
And sold it for a dollar ten
And gave me only half the money
Saying that was all they got.

They rob their kids of childhood games
To run the shop and study hard
To be the best at everything
And social mores and etiquette
Are something for the native born.

Who are these people?

I helped them when I saw a need
And never got a thank you
I smiled when they pushed me aside
To reach the goodie table first
And take the biggest piece.

They piously bow heads to pray
On entering a holy place
(That serves as Country Club)
To listen to the words of God
And leave to serve the devil.

Who are these people?

They are the winners in an evil game
A hive that can’t be overcome
I watch myself go down in flame
And wait for justice to be won.
                      ljm
Two more weeks until I am unemployed and I turn my lawyer loose on them for the back overtime they don't know they'll owe me.
Nick Huber Dec 2017
I can't count the number of times, the wind stopped me in my tracks.
The length of night that stretched out of my heart.
The number of times, I could not say goodbye.
I counted on so many things to signal your return.
Each time, the signs dwindled down, to what they are today.
It was never, the way you described; I found out,
unintentionally.
You'd call on a whim,
And miraculously, I'd be there.
Like the worn down music-box my grandmother kept.
My motor was wound, and I laid,
Always ready.

Even if I were blind,
I'd know you from the gentler notes.
The rate of your breath, the sound of your voice, the scent of your hair...
I didn't have the heart, to stay far enough away.
I wasn't a slave,
But, I couldn't call this freedom.

I was a poet, with a few words,
and a jar full of tears.
I'd carry them to town: every morning negotiating a fair price,
to those who'd pay.
They'd pay me in flowers, in kisses, and large bellowing laughs.
But my pockets were empty, my lips parched, my voice hoarse.
But I did have a smile. It spread from cheek to cheek.

My eyes would receive the light, and transpose it into something else.
Faces molded by a Gutenberg Press. Antiquarian, but lovely either way.
After a day or so, the ink would fade at an alarming rate.
Once red lips, now chapped and anguished.

Their arms, could not hold me.
I was already, very far away.
Now, I watched as tears fell, from eyes that weren't my own.
I watched, and felt a pain in my stomach.
Not the gut turning pain of guilt.
I was hungry!

But my pockets were still empty.
I spent it all (out of concern for my health), on a fake smile and an empty glass. But don't think it was all that sudden.
I was cold, I was alone, and I was drifting through a town I didn't know. I went back and forth with the angel in my heart, and the devil in my loins for a whole 30 seconds, accepting the shame I knew you wouldn't feel.

Now, now, I know what you're thinking. This story deteriorated into one about me. But it hasn't. It's still about you. 100%.
So, I'm sure, one day, you'll read this letter.
You'll file it away with all the postcards I sent.
Maybe even loosely bind it in a folder, held together with rubber bands, stables and tape. Not with the notation "beautiful poems," nor "inspiring messages," and definitely not
"everlasting love."
You'll put a post-it note on top, and label it "Deranged, Obsessive Ramblings."
It'll float around, bouncing in between the chasm of your perfectly sculpted head, till one day you realize: "It couldn't be about 'Him'."

You see, my life had none of the adornments I mentioned.
It had no flowers, no kisses, and assuredly, no bellowing laughs.
But I can say,
I was really, quite hungry.

                                               The End.
For Mayra
My ex-wife comes by
And gives me a hug,
But she immediately heads out
To have coffee with a friend
Living in the Building
Who is "much more important"
Than I am.
So, the relationship is polite.
On the the surface,
There is no bitterness.
But  my Divorce was a massive waste of money.
However,
For a  status conscious women,
Throwing money down the toilet
Is much cheaper
Than Vulnerability.
She never finishes a conversation.
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