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Passions in Poetry

no air-play

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New Member
since 10-11-1999
Posts 1
Winston-Salem, NC, USA

0 posted 10-13-1999 10:36 AM       View Profile for Iasia   Email Iasia   Edit/Delete Message      Find Poems  View IP for Iasia

I keep hearing subliminal messages
through my dollar store radio
whenever I drive home
pining crying over you
hey - didn't we almost have it all?
where did we go wrong?
and yea - a woman's fed up
no matter what you say-no….
there ain't
nothing you can do about it
but I am telling you I ain't going to
and instead I do
by putting up with promises unfolded
and molded into that machete
that swipes through my heart
with one swift blow
until it takes my son to tell me that
mommy's a big girl and she has
no reason to cry
so I wipe my tears with my poems
and slash my wrists
with my ball point pen
every time I write **** like this-
**** without meaning
or with meaning that no one
gives a **** to hear like
"hell no!!! no more tears
over any man!" I cry-but
i've lied cause
when the show's over
I get in my car
start it up
and turn on that box
the rain begins to fall and
I am no longer iasia the poet
but stephanie the mother
the business woman
the writer
the broken wildflower that refuses to
die out because of reason
season or treason
sometimes I feel like eric
wanting to yell "can anybody feel
me without feeling me?" without the
words screaming your name every
time my voice wraps around the
microphone to whisper a sexual
prayer or a sensuous wish-
and it's making me see phyllis
hyman differently when I hear that
she can't stand this living all alone
because the words are smacking me
back home and I know that if I don't
conquer this dragon called despair
my fate will be the same as hers
and I might see saint peter too soon
but I know it's impossible
cause razors hurt, gas stinks, fear of
heights and
too broke to buy a no-doze
much less an industrial strength
sleeping pill
all and all I know
you heard me without listening
touched me without feeling
liked me without loving me
wanted me without needing me
and that's the part that
hurts me without ****ing
consciously harming me
see, you were that savior
that pulled me out of the pits of hell
only to throw me back in face down
yelling "save your damn self-
I don't need your kind of love
contaminating my heart…"
my punishment for yearning and
watching this distant unfeeling
menage-a-tois unfold
into jealousy and heartbreak and
I now know that this **** ain't right…
I should have walked away and said
"never again" but I thought it was
my turn to save someone that I
found out later didn't want to be
saved and instead wanted to drown
in those waters and die happily
being kicked around
pushed around
rearranged around and around
and around and around
until I see headlines and full CNN
coverage about who what where
when and why-who gives a ****
about how anymore?
so now I have to move on and throw
myself back into my job my son
my life even this poem that is so
****ing personal that anyone can feel it
like someone finger ****ing a
virginal punanny that isn't ready for the picking-
with shouts of pain, traces of tears
and that misguided intuition that
"maybe if I let you do it deeper
you'll love me" or "if I don't let him
see me cry, he'll think I'm the better
woman" or " he told me that this
wouldn't hurt so why does it hurt
why does this hurt why does this
hurt why does this **** hurt?"
but I guess that's what I get for
letting somebody play and touch
and move on in with no regret no
thought no love no type of future of
us but of them
and once again I'm that five year old
and I'm left out of playing because
my hair wasn't long enough
my love wasn't strong enough
and I wasn't worthy enough
to associate with those who had their
own ideas of who was prettier
smarter smiled better loved harder
played harder than me but
now I am suffocating and dying
because I couldn't see past the smiles
the bull**** and the so-called sadness
I used to think I saw in your eyes…
but I can always catch my breath and
take that pillow off my face so I can
breathe again and know that
a rose is still a rose and
I will survive and
there's a me without you
and somewhere in my lifetime I'll
learn to respect the power of love…
and maybe by then
I can turn to you
and finally tell you
you play too much

© copyright 1999

© Copyright 1999 Iasia - All Rights Reserved
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