Poems from a Broken Heart
"Even as the heart dies, poems are being born." K.G.
No more your hair
cool through my fingers
no more my fingers
warm down your back
no more your back
pressed up against me
no more me.
Don't Mind If I Do
My heart is not a revolving door
through which you may come and go as you please.
I am not a buffet
where you can take your fill of the things you like,
and leave the rest to grow cold,
developing a leather skin.
If you are so ashamed
of what is hanging on your sleeve,
why don't you flick me off
and be done with me?
I am not a wad of gum
that you chew on and spit out
when the flavour is gone.
I am the woman you chose
to walk through life with;
beside me, not in front of me.
I will NOT walk two steps behind
and offer my hand to your foul-mouthed friends.
Oh, and if you insist
Thank you.
I do believe I WILL fuck off.
Self-Erected Prison
All at once I find myself
a victim of the lack of common
sense I had a long, long time ago.
'Cause I didn't have the sense to let you go.
Even though we never said
that caring was an option,
I assumed at least for now it was a start.
But there's just no way to warm your stone-cold heart.
You live your life inside a prison wall.
So tell me, do you ever feel at all?
What's it like there all alone,
in your fortress made of stone?
I wonder if I'll live to see the fall
of your self-erected, stone cold prison wall.
After all this time I have to
wonder if you ever really
knew that being loved could set you free.
Or are you exactly where you want to be?
Everything you touch becomes
a statue in your garden,
or a trophy in your Hall of Lonely Art.
What's it like to be imprisoned in your heart?
Garden Fountain
I should turn to stone;
carve myself into the image
of a Goddess
so that you have no choice
but to gaze upon me
in awe and reverence.
I should place a spell on you
so that all you see is me,
in every ripple in the pond,
every voluptuous cloud,
in every strange woman's face.
You will pine for me
as you touch my cold body;
long for a pulse,
a breath,
a kiss.
But instead, I will give you
a salty, glistening fountain,
flowing from my grey granite eyes.
At Arm's Length
Suddenlythe length of my arm
is exactly the number
of inches between us,
minus one.
Sometime
when I was a fetus
my fingers stopped growing
just soon enough that I
can't grasp you.
Somehow
the chain on your ankle
that leads to me, your ball,
became so short that you
are tripping.
I swear I
don't want to entomb you;
I only seek a kiss
or just an, " I missed you"
Nothing more.
Instead,
there's the back of your head
for the hours before bed.
I can't be a fly on
your cell wall.
Surely
it's not a life sentance,
and I'm not your pennance, I'm
not the lock on your door;
I'm the key.