"shrugged" poems
They
told me
“Go out and
meet new and different people
called strangers,” but I asked, “Where do
I meet them?” They shrugged
so I gave
them a
Mirror.
Jun 1, 2014
Jun 1, 2014 at 9:50 AM UTC
The introvert smirked to himself,
the extrovert winked,
The introvert blinked and turned his face,
The extrovert pursued the look,
and the introvert blushed and left the room.
The extrovert shrugged and broke his stare,
The extrovert forgot that he was ever there,
But the introvert never forgot, ingrained in his mind was the extroverts face,
The extrovert saw many people that day, too many people to recall by name,
The extrovert forgot his wink,
The introvert replayed his blink,
For many days the introvert hid,
The extrovert lived,
And both were content,
The introvert who sat alone,
The extrovert who broke the silence,
The introvert who raised his hand,
The extrovert who listened,
We learn our greatest lessons from living at a distance.
Nov 16, 2016
Nov 16, 2016 at 2:00 PM UTC
There once was a friendship
A friendship that grew strong
One that was durable and could survive all that went wrong
The people in this friendship loved each other
through blood, tears, and depression
They stood by each others sides through
Spite, anger,and loss of affection
They fought for each others beliefs
Held each other when one felt weak
Trusted one another with everything
But eventually the day came
When their friendship wasn't the same
And they ran
Having each other to blame
For the once proud friendships decay
There once was a girl who yearned for what was lost
She wanted her friendship no matter the cost
So she gave up her pride
With a plead and a cry
She waited patiently for old friend to oblige
But to her surprise her friend still insisted she had lied
On the outside she shrugged and said at least I tried
But on the inside she knew the pain would not subside
That the friendship would be broken even after the day she died
Dec 3, 2013
Dec 3, 2013 at 4:33 AM UTC
you never asked to read my poetry
maybe that was the sign.
i told you i wrote for fun,
you shrugged and moved on.
Dec 22, 2018
Dec 22, 2018 at 8:54 PM UTC
The line didn't move, though there were not
many people in it. In a half-hearted light
the lone agent dealt patiently, noiselessly, endlessly
with a large dazed family ranging
from twin toddlers in strollers to an old lady
in a bent wheelchair. Their baggage
was all in cardboard boxes. The plane was delayed,
the rumor went through the line. We shrugged,
in our hopeless overcoats. Aviation
had never seemed a very natural idea.
Bored children floated with faces drained of blood.
The girls in the tax-free shops stood frozen
amid promises of a beautiful life abroad.
Louis Armstrong sang in some upper corner,
a trickle of ignored joy.
Outside, in an unintelligible darkness
that stretched to include the rubies of strip malls,
winged behemoths prowled looking for the gates
where they could bury their koala-bear noses
and **** our dimming dynamos dry.
Boys in floppy sweatshirts and backward hats
slapped their feet ostentatiously
while security attendants giggled
and the voice of a misplaced angel melodiously
parroted FAA regulations. Women in saris
and kimonos dragged, as their penance, behind them
toddlers clutching Occidental teddy bears,
and chair legs screeched in the food court
while ill-paid wraiths mopped circles of night
into the motionless floor.
10.3k
During my manic episodes, you found me fun, fervent, even amazing. You told me that you wouldn’t trade my love for anything.
You told me that I made the butterflies dance in your stomach,
and made the demons disappear in your head.
With every “I love you,” there was a smirk and a kiss.
You told me that I was one of a kind
and you’d be there for me no matter what because you couldn’t imagine living without me.
After my first bad episode, you started telling me that my love was overbearing and you needed space.
You told me that you felt suffocated and I was like a child craving attention from their mother. You told me I was too repetitive and you just wanted to go get high.
Every time I said “I love you” you looked at me, shrugged, and said “me too.”
I asked you what happened to “forever” and you said only sane girls keep their prince.
You acted as if I got to pick and choose what disorder I wanted. As if being bipolar was a luxury I wasn’t taking advantage of.
When you got sent to a mental institution for attempting suicide, I searched for you for six hours until your mom told me where you were.
After you returned,
I helped you find yourself again and lost myself in the process.
I sacrificed everything for your well-being,
and you had no interest in mine.
You made me believe that being bipolar made you a terrible person, but then I looked at you with tearful eyes,
and got a peek at what terrible really is.
Thanks to you, I know who I am.
Nov 2, 2014
Nov 2, 2014 at 4:56 PM UTC
When Technology died,
some of us merely shrugged and
Tried to go back to before...
Only it wasn't the same...
So many hard-wirings gone,
So many places where we used to go,
So many thoughts we used to know,
Forgotten in an ethereal swirl...
Internetted and forgotten.
Power plants done, and no more juice
To feed along the sagging wires.
Once the Internet went down,
(Without so much as a diminishing blip
Of dying light (cathodes were gone)),
Ah, Lord, we missed the ethereal glow...
Screens now dead and flat,
Unable even to reminisce
The comfort-glow of former irritants,
The fuzziness 0f electronic snow....
And telephones! My Lord!
To think of how we used to talk!
Electronic prayers, each other we implored...
So much connected,
We forgot the depths of face to face,
Now cellular paperweights lie dormant,
Longing for at least a little life,
Reminding us those days are gone.
We pass our little news
Word of mouth now,
Word of mouth to ear,
Only if the ones
We want to know are near.
May 19, 2013
May 19, 2013 at 11:41 PM UTC
the coffee shop on 1st street
you told me my eyes were warm and belonged here
I shrugged and gulped my coffee even though it burned my tongue
the bookstore on 2nd street
you told me my hands were made of love from the pages I've turned
I glanced at you and nervously chewed my fingernails until it hurt
the music store on 3rd street
you told me my heart was an acoustic guitar that'd been misplayed
I tripped over my shoelace and madly tied them up along with my heart
the arcade on 4th street
you told me my smile was worth all the time and effort because I deserved it
I went to the bathroom and before I left I smiled in the mirrors a little too hard
the beach off 5th street
you asked me what I was so afraid of that kept holding me back
I let the sand crumble between my fingers and told you that I was the sand and you were the waves
Aug 8, 2014
Aug 8, 2014 at 1:48 AM UTC
"come on, Forget-Me-Not!" flirted emerald Snapdragon,
"tell me, what’s it like to have control over me, for once?"
like fire, the cerulean bloom did crackle and hiss
and walked away in a heated, dreadful silence.
"why do you call me that?" asked uncertain Snapdragon,
"tell me, why don’t you speak with me like you used to?"
like salt, the windowed flame did flicker thrice -
and was swept away by the threatening, stormy sea breeze.
"please, my sun-kissed Fox," begged hesitant Snapdragon,
"shower me in loving words like you did before."
like rain in drought, the elusive creature did rarely show his face,
if so, only for laughter’s sake, to break the horrid silence.
"tell me, darling Forget-Me-Not," pleaded melancholy Snapdragon,
"why don’t you love me anymore?" oh how she sobbed
as, like childhood, her Snapdragon self become part of his past -
he shrugged his pale, fragile shoulders, swaying in the salty breeze.
"dear seaside Sunset," wrote tragic Snapdragon, "I am truly sorry,
I miss our days in love. your presence filled a hole in me, now empty."
but far too long in blinded oversight, Forget-Me-Not had stood,
and much too late did adoring Snapdragon realise her mistake.
Nov 5, 2014
Nov 5, 2014 at 8:01 AM UTC
An exchange of temptations that led to a hidden ordeal
On an act of carnal ecstasy made to seal a deal
The gamble to see if it’s worth lending a piece of the soul
While trembling inside for the choices that would soon take toll
The signs of deceit slowly surfaced but were shrugged despite suspicion
Until a hasty flight provoked inner unrest and affliction
Vivid memories of a previous torment come back haunting
Knowing full well the Succubus affinity for betraying
With logic and reason as both weapon and armor
Against an enemy not easily made for capture
Bargaining on a final bet that her grip be brought to nothing
To release the mind from seemingly rotting
The bargain commenced along with foreseen treason
The sought peace only a hollow victory in a silently echoing frustration
In total silence with a feeling that heavily burned
A mental wall built to signify the lesson learned
Screams of pain of the innards locked away in reticence
Occurring to just seemingly mock the brilliance
With great resolve brought by the treachery writhing in virulence
Came the vigilance of avoiding such penitence
And to never again taste the Succubus’ Sting in Silence
Oct 7, 2018
Oct 7, 2018 at 9:09 PM UTC
Waiting for the summer heat to eclipse the somber thread of one day, an old man is gifted a brand new pair of sneakers.
Father, Son, Holy Ghost? The pinnacle of the "y" axis has paralyzed the saltiness of the old man's overcoat.
"Grand dad?" A young boy turns the corner and peeks in while the old man leans over in his chair to reach his feet and lace his sneaks. "You were breathing loudly and I was just making sure you're okay."
The boy continued, "cool sneakers grandpa."
This reminded the boy of a new student in his class who moved here from Scotland, or Ireland - he couldn't remember which. Guess what the new kid in my class calls his sneakers?"
The grandfather looks up and leans back, "he doesn't call them sneakers?" "Nope" the boy replies. "I would imagine he must call them shoes, or something like that."
"Not even close. He calls them 'runners'. He came into class one day with a pair of red sneakers and Miss Kerrington had him stand up in front of class to talk about them. She said that people in England probably call them runners as a nickname for running shoes."
The old man stood up with a groan and said, "That makes sense. It seems a bit odd, but I like it. As a matter of fact, I am gonna start using that to refer to all sneakers. What do you say we go for a walk around the block so I can break these puppies in? We'll stop for some rootbeer on the way home."
The two of them set out on their walk and the old man felt invigorated. As they continued, a light rain began and the old man said, "lets get to the store, this rain'll do damage to my new suedes."
When they finally made it to the store, the old man rushed in the door pushing his grandson out of the way. Upon his entrance his eyes met with the shopkeeper's. The shopkeeper's eyes shifted to the young boy coming in behind the man. At this moment the grandfather realized that he pushed his grandson aside in his haste to get inside the store and out of the rain.
The shopkeeper turned his attention back to the grandfather who shrugged his shoulders before gesturing to his feet with a smile and said, "I'm breaking in a new pair of runners. They're not gonna dry off as easily as he does."
Jul 26, 2013
Jul 26, 2013 at 1:59 PM UTC
Rhythm of life
Nails tapping on table tops
Beating of our hearts
spin the world right off its axis.
Momma shot a man in Reno
Just to watch him die.
Atlas shrugged
And we all tripped as we walked
The pace of our mile,
off by 3.6 seconds.
Trust in our stated axioms
Disillusioned Americans in Paris
Judged by the color of our skins
and the shoes on our feet
No one stops to see how blue it is up there today.
Hurrying through the rain
Our cities never sleep.
Going down South
It’s slower down here.
Sunday’s best and
“God Loves You” stickers when you get your oil changed.
Night train whistle blows
Factory steam pipes squeal
Mississippi riverboats tug and chug
Dictionary.com definitions let us down.
Greatest disasters in history
are when thing we take perfectly for granted
stop working.
Mad cow, mad hatter, mad world
Bad boys, bad wine, bad date
Ellipses, dot dot dots, dramatic pause, passing of time passing of time passing of….
……..
………….
…………………….
Time.
Tw—
Twi—
Twitch. (tick tick tick)
I believe in the abnormal
And the impossible
And I refuse to believe that fictional characters aren’t real
Animals completely understand me
When I talk to them.
Baby missiles fire
From all parts of the globe
End of the world party
Let’s go down in glorious drunkenness
As the beating of our hearts
Spins the world right off its axis.
Jun 13, 2012
Jun 13, 2012 at 11:34 AM UTC
Monday.
First day of the week.
He was absent. Was he sick?
I took a glance at the empty chair.
How I wish he was sitting there.
I hope tomorrow I’ll get the chance to see him.
Cause a day is not a day without him.
Tuesday.
I came at school early,
Wanting to see him badly.
There was a sad smile coated on my face,
When I didn't see him at his usual place.
His chair was still empty.
What happened to him?
I have no idea.
I have no clue.
All I knew, I was feeling blue.
I tried to brush my thoughts away,
And just listened at the class all day.
I thought I’m okay,
That I was feeling fine.
But when I saw his chair empty,
I knew my smile was not happy.
Wednesday.
Crestfallen and disappointed.
He was still not here.
I could feel the emptiness in my mind.
Just like the empty chair in my behind.
I asked my classmates,
They just shrugged their shoulders.
I asked his friends, they don’t know why.
Soon my dark eyes began to cry.
Thursday.
Too many question popped in my head.
Frustrated and confused,
I committed a major offense.
I fled from school during recess.
I want to see him today,
To know the reason of that young man,
Why for four days he was gone.
There was no one in their house.
Only their old maid.
“Where could I find him?” I asked her.
She gave me a piece of paper.
I went home with a heavy heart.
It felt like my world was drifted apart.
I looked at the paper once again,
Tears fell down while reading them.
I don’t how to endure this kind of ache,
I kept on telling it was just a mistake.
FRIDAY.
Fresh flowers I brought,
I put them on the ground.
I smiled bitterly,
As I read his name in the tomb.
“I love you.” I whispered.
I didn't hear anything in return.
“I love you!” I shouted.
Hoping he’ll answer me at ease.
But all I heard was the sound of the trees.
I cried again..
How many tears should I cry,
For him to come back?
For him to be with me again?
To feel his warmth.
To smell his scent.
To stare at his eyes.
It was too late.
Too late…
Saturday.
I wept until I could no longer feel the pain.
Sunday.
I did what I've done yesterday.
Monday..
I come to school.
Act as if nothing happen,
They asked me if I’m fine,
I nodded and smiled.
While walking into our room,
Wearing fake mask behind my gloom.
But tears fell again on my face,
When I didn't see him at his usual place.
I glance at the empty chair,
How I wish he was sitting there.
Dec 2, 2014
Dec 2, 2014 at 9:44 AM UTC
An animal shriek
in the snowiest silence
is swallowed by eyes deep and brown,
not like mine.
Which're shallow and icy and
clouded with Sundays
shrugged off of shoulders
from peak down to plain.
These mornings are silent,
constructed from cinder blocks;
skeletal, rusting--yet inwardly
wailing.
Why in the world can't I set those shouts free
when the achiest Mondays release
all their caltrops
and I stagger through work weeks
on sore, shredded feet?
It's because of the way
that your shrieks echo off
of my wrought iron eyelids
when frost fills your veins.
It's because of the way
that I melt every Thursday
and wash down the side
of the night in cold sheets.
I can't shout out loud
and I can't melt the quiet
that screams from the mountains
to snow on the prairie below.
Feb 1, 2015
Feb 1, 2015 at 2:51 PM UTC
My spine is broken from the burden of your ungrateful heart, I have shrugged shoulders to the girls who can walk into the kitchen, just to nod my head to the girl who waits to be served on the dining table, I have swam beyond seas just to drown in your heart, I have betrayed my credibility towards the streets I was raised just to follow the path that leads to your happiness, I have chased all of my dogs at the gate so you can visit anytime, you remember when I found you drunk in careless hands at the club? Then I embraced all the shame and welcomed you in my hands, I no longer see the essence of visiting mama every weekend, cause I've always dedicated my time to you, I have lapsed the doctrines of upholding holiness just to sin for you, now all these broken promises, overflowing tears and unpromising future, you have caused all this because you are ungrateful, and before this coffee hits the surface of my cup, ill make sure this love chokes you and see if you are worth it.
Nov 4, 2013
Nov 4, 2013 at 1:00 AM UTC
it was the hooded-sweatshirt, sit-close-and-pretend-you’re-cold, bleacher-seat,
whiskey-and-coke homecoming that you never had when the leaves changed.
but the leaves changed anyway.
the damp grass smelling vaguely like your fireplace as the world got quieter,
your nose in your precalc and your foot tapping and how-many-years-left
of solo fridays, you counted the suburban stars but didn’t tell anybody
how ******* beautiful they were above your head, because they were yours.
when you wore your high school colors, you were cold for real. no pretense
in your shivering, no flutter in your abdomen because he wasn’t gonna talk to you,
and you didn’t really care, you shrugged. but the leaves changed anyway.
and you changed, slowly. grew taller and smarter and prettier and then the
remaining solo fridays shrank to none, and you left. big sweet snowdrifts turned to spring
and you shared whiskey-and-coke with the city, your stars dimmer but abdomen
finally fuller, and limbs warmer and no sweatshirt because you didn’t need one,
and hands all over to hold and feeling all three kinds of love at once.
and then the accidental homecoming, and the changing of the leaves
and the hooded-sweatshirt shivers and knowing you’re so much bigger now than the
suburban stars and the backward glances of the bleacher-seat kids, but the damp
grass still smells like your fireplace and suddenly you’re small again, just for a
second but god that second, you shiver and turn around again. you’re so much
bigger than this but homecoming, this whiskey-and-coke homecoming still isn't yours.
Sep 1, 2014
Sep 1, 2014 at 11:58 PM UTC
I recently got reminded... Oh how I am caught
In a delicate web of disillusions
Make me see what is actually not
Make invisible my heart's secret questions
Been successful in putting aside all grief
But truth has it's way to make you pay
You can bury all grievances; you can mask all disbelief
But it'll all catch up; these things you've kept at bay
Make your silly compromises
To have the the best you just make allowances
Keep up your futile pretences
Accommodate your selfish preferences
Day had dawned where each question need their answer
Questions I've shrugged and left unaddressed
Indistinguishable when fact and fiction begin to blur
When dreams and reality have coalesced
Tonight I lay with the load I bring
Body asleep with my heart fully awake
Blessing or curse, this rude awakening
Decisions and choices left for the following suns to make
Jan 25, 2015
Jan 25, 2015 at 9:18 AM UTC
Elizabeth and God exist in a sunflower grave. Her mother and father slit her stomach open and watched the contents pour out like
spaghetti confetti.
Tommy, Elizabeth's boyfriend, rode his ocean blue Huffy, until the tread on his tires grew bald and until the grips were blanketed by dead skin. Looking for her, panoramic views of the horizon leapt beside him. Silhouettes of his legs, churned and kissed the orange and caramel dusk. With every tear in his hamstrings and calves, the **** in his sky grew and swallowed the memory of Elizabeth Mendenhall, Honor Student.
Margot, Elizabeth's twelve year-old sister, was an idealistic soul. Taking a Sharpie, she wrote on her sister's wall, "Liz, there is no death greater than the loss of self, and no life greater than one where we continuously search for what self is." Margot struggled with concentrating and frying eggs - but focused on the sunflower garden, dangerously and perfectly.
Hilary and Brendan were thirty-five and thirty-six years-old. They stabbed their daughter thirty-seven times. They don't know why they did it, they just couldn't think of a reason not to do it.
She begged for her life. The yellow petals of the sunflowers caught blood-drops and, after enough struggle, floated down to kiss and lay on Elizabeth's slow-twitch body. Hilary looked at Brendan and said, "What does this mean?" Brendan shrugged and said, "This is new to me."
The garden was an oven, and digging her grave was like pulling back on a cheap, plastic latch. Elizabeth had pale, pre-cooked pie crust skin. The slits in her stomach looked like peeks into a cherry stuffed filling. Crinkled lips looked indented by a stainless steel fork, back and forth, side to side. And the soil rained upon her like the reversal of hot vapor, returning home.
Elizabeth and the Sunflower Garden.
May 21, 2015
May 21, 2015 at 5:37 AM UTC
It was one of those days
when nothing else seemed to matter
but him and me.
We strolled around campus
with his hand in mine,
guiding me through the heat.
"Hold on," he interrupted. "Have you ever
written a piece about me?"
"Yes." *I have written
a thousand pieces for you,* I thought.
"I'd like to read one.
Why haven't you shown me any?"
I shrugged.
*Because none of them
do your vibrance justice*.
Apr 28, 2016
Apr 28, 2016 at 2:32 PM UTC
Leave my Nan out in the rain, it'll be right.
She's having veg later with some meat, on a bone but meat.
No gravy, she's too lazy. She will not thread it.
So what do you think? Shall we fold it the other way?
Do it tonight, it won't be today and not quite black but definitely not grey.
If it smells like cheese, just wear one and keep one eye open!
Then, we may even finish third.
Remember, listen for the sound.
It's crucial, like a twenty pence piece.
Dust! Always dust. Grams and ounces of the dustiest dust.
Never before six and never after six.
Just continuous with no bends, bubbles or any of that material you really like.
Because when he'd finished speaking (The Italian) I didn't understand a ******* word of it!
"Sorry, I don't speak Italian", shrugged my shoulders, did that thing you do with your bottom lip and ****** off.
THE END
(FINITO)
May 28, 2018
May 28, 2018 at 3:01 AM UTC
Dear Sasha,
A war is coming,
I am aware of its gravity and I don’t know if I am ready,
To answer your question in your last letter,
Why do I cut so deep?
It’s because I know how words can cut deeper than any sword,
Don’t give me the bull **** that,
“sticks and stones can brake bones and words can never hurt you”
Sticks can snap your bones,
But words can snap your spirit and mind,
And these times are hard on my spirit,
“Time heals all”
but these wounds will take longer
So don’t tell me words don’t affect my life
If someone sits there in your face saying,
Your stupid and irresponsible long enough,
Torturing you constantly with their literary daggers,
You start to believe it,
You start to feel,
As much as I want to shrugged it off,
It weighs me down,
This curse called empathy,
A curse of a pacifist,
I take every word to heart,
And it ****** me off,
I know I am not what they say,
But this name tag on my uniform is all I have left of my identity,
I’m not sure if It’s true,
But I can’t help believe it anyway,
Don’t tell me to shrug it off,
Cause you can’t remove these battle wounds,
If you keep chiseling at this stone pillar it will crumble,
Letting loose my dogs of war,
I cut deep,
Cause I know the strength of words
I follow the golden rule,
So don’t make me use these literary daggers,
to leave lasting marks on your psyche,
Cause trust me I have,
And I can rip apart your world and all of its glory,
Cause I was trained to do so,
Make you doubt your identity,
cause mine was taken,
Cause it’s easy to make my pain…. yours,
But that would be too easy.
I will turn these daggers upon myself,
Because “If you have nothing nice to say don’t say anything at all”
If you are struck down,
You want to strike back,
These words and thoughts don’t just disappear,
These arrows are sharp and drawn,
I have to let them go somewhere,
Ill cut and stab myself before I hurt another,
I’ll take your pain for you,
No matter how much you don’t like me and try to tear me down,
I will not lash out,
I will not strike back,
Because that would make me no better than you,
I will cut myself before I cut you,
I cut myself so deep,
Cause I get over the pain,
The scares stay but the pain doesn’t,
As I finish this letter the anger has already left,
“you’re only as happy as you make yourself out to be”
So I will take the full force of their swords,
because I won’t dwell in the pain,
So I am going to move on from the hate,
So why do I cut myself so deep?,
because I know now I am strong enough to take it,
Yours truly,
The empathetic warrior
Jan 23, 2014
Jan 23, 2014 at 3:51 PM UTC
It's like that time the windows blew open,
And the gust carried snow in towards us,
Us huddled on the couch under that calico crocheted blanket,
And I looked at you, corners of my mouth pulled down,
And you,
You sighed, and shrugged,
Removed your arm from around my comfortable shoulders,
Struggled up and over to wrestle the pane
And lock the shutters,
And when you sat back down, you looked at me,
And all I had to do was smile.
It's like that time when we packed a picnic to the park,
And we only made it so far as the lake
Before our stomachs rumbled and your grumbling gave us an early lunch,
And then after, lay in the grass, pointing out
All the obscurities of our imaginations in the clouds.
It's like that time I came home,
So tired and worn out,
Hair askew with a smudge of dirt on my cheek,
And the lights were out, but you had lined the hall
To the bathroom with candles,
And as I made my way through their soft, whispering light
Towards the escaping tendrils of steam,
You jumped from the dark,
Stifling my shriek with a hug.
It's like that time I realized that I loved you,
It's like that time right now.
Nov 13, 2012
Nov 13, 2012 at 12:53 PM UTC
i remember the day
i first saw you
and how everybody
said "stay away from him"
and how i shrugged
my shoulders and
approached your attitude.
i remember the day
i last saw you,
and how you said
"i'm no good",
and how i shrugged
my shoulders and
touched your tongue
for the last time.
Oct 4, 2014
Oct 4, 2014 at 5:19 AM UTC
When I first met love
It took me in its arm
And twirled me into a world
Where I could no longer
Be okay with loneliness.
It dropped me in the dust.
I was a foreigner here.
The only reality I knew before
Love left me stranded
Was dark and quiet,
Comfortable and terminal.
I was bound to fade away
And my time was almost up
When Love ripped me
From my grave
And ****** me into
Its strange world.
Here,
I settled into
My tragic fortune.
Waiting for Love
To dance with me again.
Our first dance
Was too furious to survive.
Love tossed me
Like a ragdoll
And spun me so fast
My head nearly
Detached from my body.
Love went for the lift
And dropped me on my face.
The second time
Love took me by the hand
It's gentle swaying
Almost made me forget
About our first disaster.
Softly, Love turned me around.
I turned once,
I turned twice,
Lost in rhythm I closed my eyes.
Now Love turned me again
And when I opened my eyes
Expecting to greet the face
That hypnotized me,
Love was unfamiliar.
Distorted and cruel,
Love changed to Narcissism
And left me in the dust again.
One more time
Love asked me to dance.
And I said,
"Stay away from me.
I won't fall for it again."
So Love shrugged and
Began to waltz without me.
I watched in disbelief
As Love moved
With a new kind of grace
And fluidity.
It didn't need me
To create such beauty.
But with patience,
Love waited for me.
So I stepped in
And Love let me lead.
Love bent with me
And caught me
When I dipped.
It seems
All we needed
Was the right music.
Feb 27, 2017
Feb 27, 2017 at 12:21 AM UTC