Tainted

Our love it was corrupted

From the first kiss

I believed us divine

Otherworldly and blessed

The follies of inscience

I invoked complete adoration

Like a simple woman with no thought

Unknowingly tempting fortune

For you were not that

The one who would encompass me

In the folds of adoration

You were existing only for pleasure

And my belief in more

Exhausting me and rendering me

Ineffectual and insipid

Like a child begging for love

Asking for the arms that never existed

So I fly away to that place

Where I leave my irrational desires

I projected your way

So I can shed my need for something abysmal

And acquiesce to a lesser existence

Where you do not know me and

I am not myself

Yet you feel I belong to you

Never knowing the authentic me

Has been lost in my desire

For more

 

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Map

The weary traveler

Came to me cotton-mouthed and hungered

Asking for the map

I gave him sustenance

Nothing more

He asked me to reconsider

Pleaded his case

Said he needed the diagram

To get to his destination

I hesitated knowing

He knew not what he was seeking

Yet his eyes, the beseeching gleam

I could not resist

And I produced the coveted sketch

His fingers clutched it longingly

Making me feel at the moment

I had chosen befittingly

He left to continue on his quest

I decorously felt noble on his leave

And continued about my daily routine

Only to have the fowl who delivers word

Drop the memoir of his voyages

Which contained his confession

Of the loss of that which he sought

His destination was never realized

He was lost along the way

When he failed to note

All the road signs

I had left

Silly wayfarer

Even more ludicrous

Me

Artificial

Hearts

Knees

Hips

Breasts

Splenda

AstroTurf

Nail extensions

Perfume

Spray on tan

Plastic plants

Mocha Mix

Your heart

Foreign

These word of imprudence

That assault my sentient heart

It cannot fathom your antipodal sounds

Emanating slowly in an exquisite shower

Into my fathomless observation

Rendering me useless and diminutive

Changing me, a metamorphosis

An affliction not carried by anyone

Except the version of me

Who invariably acquiesces

To your adversarial articulation

Of these foreign words

 

 

 

 

Deception

Strange
That is what they would say
They would scowl at us
Their disaproval apparent
On the spurious faces
They submit for our perusal
Laugh
That is what I would do
As I kiss you with abandon
In crowded rooms
And public venues surrounded by affectations
Those who would cast the first stone
Smile
That is what you would do
As you cup my chin in your beautiful hand
And tell me enchanting tales
To assuage my worry
And unfurrow my silly brow
Love
That is what we would have
And our adoration would spill over
Make others uncomfortable in the presence
Of such intense need
Radiant devotion they have never known

And most likely
Never will

Instrument

This musician, he has many claims
His fingers promise he recognizes my instrument
Perhaps he knows my heart is a violin, although out of tune
It can still emit a euphony of sorrow
If his bow is strong enough to thrust across my rusty strings
Or can he see my stomach is a cello?
That if he holds me between his knees
And attempts double stops on my flesh while I smother a giggle
He may just fashion a masterpiece
Does he perceive that my ribs are a piano?
Meant to play a concerto of lament when I am distracted by the salmon sunset
He asserts that if I just submit
He shall compose a symphony
Full of my remorse and discarded love
I duck my head in acquiescence
Knowing full well that his attempts at perfection
Will be thwarted by my never-ending
Inability to be in tune

Crayolas

She colors a picture with her worn crayons
Using cerulean for the sky
Mountain meadow for the grass
It undulates under the press of her hand
This depiction of another place
One where she is noticed
That other dwelling where the mother
She is smiling and beckons
Allows her to crawl up on her enveloping lap
And sings the praises of her creations
Then sends her to her room with cookies
And a warm glass of milk
The mountains here are burnt sienna
As the sun hits them with
A temperate warmth
The water that laps at their edge
Is caribbean green
And the fish are teal blue
This pastel scene makes her sigh
This illusion it makes her unbearably happy
To finish this work of art
Brings melancholy
For she knows that with the completion
She will again be left with this
A colorless world
Where the crayons are normal
Plain old blue, green, orange, and brown
And devoid of the complexion
Of her trusty box of
Crayolas

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