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Rose Dempsey

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This Is Not Wounded Pride
by Rose Dempsey
Friday, September 26, 2008
Not rated by the Author.
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Recent poems by Rose Dempsey
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           >> View all 41

This is not wounded pride, this aching chasm that has swallowed my life
and left it devoid of all that was contentment.
This black hole of emotion, where I feel like an outsider looking in
on what was once my life.
Where tears and deep wrenching sobs erupt during the mundane,
accompanying dishes and laundry,
and where I no longer feel loved,
just like an actor playing a role and not very well.

The life that I thought I had is gone, buried in the lies and half-truths of deceit
and mocks me by appearing to remain.
I am no longer me. My self-esteem wiped out as easily as I was eradicated on a page.
Everything was a sham, and now that is all that surrounds me,
taunting while I am awake and haunting my dreams when asleep.
I am not who I was, I am empty,
and what once gave me joy is now my prison.

My very existence confuses me, yet again I am made to feel worthless,
yet told I am wanted, told I am loved.
I lost my best friend, my very soul in ways, my life in all but the breath -
and the breath is all I have, that is living.
The life that was me is gone, my memories like flickers of an old movie,
just celluloid and no longer real.
I am lost in a world that was once my all,
lost and wishing I were a thousand miles from here and from this pain.

There is no trust any more, no belief in words, no belief in soft touches,
they bring forth only the tears of loss ,
since they were present before, during and now after.
Fake expressions of caring or truth, I cannot discern now,
alone in this desperation of self yet nothingness.
I yearn for release, for a turning back of time, decades,
never to walk this path but to choose, instead, another.

Ah, that one could put right so easily that which is wrong
instead of being held ransom to its never-ending pain.

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