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| Open Poetry #3 |
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no air-play |
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Iasia New Member
since 1999-10-11
Posts 1Winston-Salem, NC, USA |
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 baby… you play too much © copyright 1999 |
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