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Nomkhumbulwa Feb 21
You send me gifts,
You send me cards,
You sign it with a kiss,
But this is not love.

You send me emails,
Tell me to write back,
I do yet dad never replies,
This is not love.

You belittle me,
Mock me,
Humiliate me,
This is not love.

Your words torture me,
You think its ok to hit me,
You justify your cruelty,
This is not love.

I have tried to explain,
I have never blamed you,
I needed the distance,
This is not love.

You dont listen to me,
You turn family against me,
You are ashamed of me,
This is not love.

You blame me,
You shame me,
You will never accept me,
This is not love.

You go behind my back,
Telling people you want to help,
Yet you only ever scold me,
This is not love.

You refused to listen,
Just continued to blame,
Telling me its not good enough,
This is not love.

Others have tried to tell you,
You are making me sick,
But still you will not have it,
This is not love.

Everything that happens to me,
How you would abuse me,
You can only show anger,
This is no love.

You have pushed me so far,
That i've lost my mind,
I've lost all hope,
This is not love.

I have had patience with you,
Told you I understand you,
Yet still its never enough,
This is not love.

You want me to visit,
You will pay me to visit,
Pay to make me more sick...
This is not love.

After I was assaulted,
Your anger was relentless,
The blaming, the shaming,
This is not love.

Screaming and shouting down the phone,
I was forced to listen, I had no control,
Telling me id caused so much damage, made people sick..
This is not love.

All I got from you,
Was yet more torture,
More abuse, no empathy,
This is not love.

Ever since that day Ive known,
You cannot be my mother,
I cant treat anyone like you did,
This is not love.

I cannot understand,
What it must be like,
To have zero compassion,
This is not love.

You tortured me before,
Then you tortured me more,
Now you want me to come back?
This is not love.

Mum - I do not hate you,
And I mean you no harm,
But you have caused so much damage,
This is not love.

I am certainly not perfect,
And neither are you,
But i'd never want to hurt someone,
This is not love.

You see ive studied narcissism,
Ive dedicated so much time,
Trying to understand you,
Reaching the same conclusions time again.

I know its not your fault,
I will never blame you,
But you simply will not understand,
That I cannot love you.

All you've done is prove me right,
Though for a long time I doubted myself,
You made me doubt on purpose...
Mum - this is not love.

You are a textbook narcissist,
Im sorry if you think im wrong,
You rejected my suggestion of getting help...
This is not love.

After I was *****,
I knew you'd react that way,
Yet your anger still sickens me,
It sickens me to this day.

It proved to me once and for all,
That you can never be my mother,
Maybe we could be friends one day,
But you are not my mother.

Mum we have no bond,
We never have had one,
All you've shown me is disgust,
This is not love.

Others may be on your side,
I've read up on that too,
You hurt me to your own advantage,
This cannot be love.

Im not trying to hurt you,
Disrespect you, or anyone else,
Im only now protecting myself,
For what we have...is not love.

You turned all those I love against me,
But thats what narcissists do,
Im not the only victim you know,
And I do know your love is not true.

I am sorry mum,
It is all I can say,
We both need to fix ourselves,
Then maybe we can meet someday.

But after all this abuse,
I am sorry to say,
That I do not love you,
This is not love mum, I now see clear as day.

Im tired mum
Please let me go....

Take care **
Sorry another depression poem written spontaneously in the middle of the night.  Another one directed at my narcissistic mother, although I have never really planned to write about her, it just happened.
Broadsky May 2018
I feel like I'm going to puke.
I'm feeling as crazy as driving down your street at 2am blaring my car horn. This is the first we've spoken in months and it feels good. This diaphram strain hasnt been holding me back from singing in the shower, singing our song. Whatever that may be. You wounded me in ways I feel I'll never heal from, I'm down to my last cigarette and I want to smoke it- I got my license so I can get more, maybe ill keep driving and driving til I see your house and your new unfamiliar car parked in front of it. You move me in ways I never expected and I haven't moved your way in what feels like decades.
I love you.
You replied.
Hidden Glace Jan 2018
Something I do know
written on every face
is that I don't know what I feel
so that's why
you telling me

to figure myself out
to decide who I actually love
to tell people that I can't say you too
to explain how I feel
to stop being what I feel
to stop being confused

Really ****** Me Off
Sunshine Girl Nov 2016
Sunshine bleeds too much.
Ever stop to wonder?

To wonder how, with so little inhibition
as to the privacy of your life,
it filters in through
your bedroom shades?

To wonder how, with so little modesty,
it bolsters through your windshield
and into the very irises
that have bade it leave?

To wonder how, with so little attempt at civility
it burns?

Beauty and brightness
are not the same thing.

but happiness
can bloom
in dark places...
just replying because you replied to someone and it was a subject i am strong on......don't mind me.
SassyJ Mar 2016
Stock them high was the order of the day
In queues one by one, they flock shops
A social warehouse of common sales
Slashed home events, buy one get one

On a balcony I sip Chai Latte swiftly
Masses line up on spotlight street path
Each drawn in enterprises of expenditure
A dime for a good, a rhyme to amass more

Coloured triangle on the forehead illuminates
A third eye, a seer pry, mood eased to try
Our eyes meet and my tiled notebook melt
Sing my heart don't protest,soul free to sate

We lost in narrowed jungles strolling multiples
Outer casts giggling, deep withering multiplex
Pasted blocks of concrete as loneliness replies
A vice subtle, an automated paradigm in demise
Thanks J for a lovely day out, my soul is free to sate. I had a triangular pyramid on my forehead and you never questioned my spontaneity. I couldn't quite explain to people what the painted triangle on my forehead was, they really cannot understand..... I tried to be understood.Live life...Love Art....***
Martin Narrod Apr 2014
Black Rook In Rainy Weather

On the stiff twig up there
Hunches a wet black rook
Arranging and rearranging its feathers in the rain.
I do not expect a miracle
Or an accident

To set the sight on fire
In my eye, nor seek
Any more in the desultory weather some design,
But let spotted leaves fall as they fall,
Without ceremony, or portent.

Although, I admit, I desire,
Occasionally, some backtalk
From the mute sky, I can't honestly complain:
A certain minor light may still
Lean incandescent

Out of kitchen table or chair
As if a celestial burning took
Possession of the most obtuse objects now and then --
Thus hallowing an interval
Otherwise inconsequent

By bestowing largesse, honor,
One might say love. At any rate, I now walk
Wary (for it could happen
Even in this dull, ruinous landscape); skeptical,
Yet politic; ignorant

Of whatever angel may choose to flare
Suddenly at my elbow. I only know that a rook
Ordering its black feathers can so shine
As to seize my senses, haul
My eyelids up, and grant

A brief respite from fear
Of total neutrality. With luck,
Trekking stubborn through this season
Of fatigue, I shall
Patch together a content

Of sorts. Miracles occur,
If you care to call those spasmodic
Tricks of radiance miracles. The wait's begun again,
The long wait for the angel,
For that rare, random descent.

The Response*

Even while flashbulbs go out, every now and then, we all must gather our arms and legs in a heap of human kindling, to rap tap tap on the downstairs neighbors door- for a set of candles, perhaps a chance to go completely insane for one terse moment when the hyperbole of vowels *just don't matter
anymore.

And speaking of the sordid state of griseous gull-like creatures. Ravenous ravens gnawing outside the window of the kitchen table. How boring life can become, for at the moment, when we are not biting our nails, playing dress up, or playing doctor- all *******. Or maybe even burying our heads in the looks of rooks or with our noses brimming over with the tops of books.

The tea we have set in the study awaits us, as we all have to drink our tea some time.

Just don't leave the lights on baby. Who needs lamps at full lux at high noon any who? You, Mrs. Sylvia Plath Hughes? Maybe you ought to buy a book of stamps- at the nearest Hobby Lobby, pack a paper bag with an apple and a 'sammich', and list formally your complaints.

We can't all waste our time narrating other people's lives in the third person.

— The End —