My life’s never-ending lesson
began shortly before I met you.
It started with a con
of which you wished
to rescue me from.
Your job, was to
undermine his job,
at working me over.
You succeeded.
I was grateful.
Maybe it was sympathy
that drew you to me.
I don’t know.
And maybe the guilt
caused you to hang on
longer than you should have.
I, so foolishly believed
you loved me
and that was why
you were my friend.
I was wrong.
Now that it’s been years
since the con passed
the memory of it
has been filled in
with evil absorbing dirt.
Or maybe it
wasn't a hole,
but more like
an intricate outline
of unknown form,
awaiting colors by number
totaling twenty-three.
And maybe you colored
outside the lines,
while I, like a demented child
filled in the emptiness
with clutter and nonsense,
just so you could stay
within me.
I was so sure of you.
It didn’t matter
if I used
bold strokes
wild colors
filled in all
the blank spots
or left them exposed.
OH so much pain. You've been conned. Don't be so hard on your self. Beautiful metaphor and imagery. I've been a fool, too. It is not fun. Excellent poem. Liz
This is a sensitive poem on a painful issue in your life obviously. You captured it well and perhaps offered some insight that may alter others perceptions and safe them some hurt.
Fee
It's a poe-do-ku poem! No matter the observer, if you coloured the insides with yourself--clashing colors or not-- it's bound to be beautiful. To this observer's eyes, it's astonishingly so. We all have exposed blank spots. You use your magic marker on me, I'll use mine on that one lonely-looking guy over there... he'll use it on his brother, and his brother on a young girl, and she on her teacher, and who knows? Perhaps that teacher will color in a few more empty spots on you... and oh, what a miriad of colorful beauty we'll make. The world: your canvas. Paint on.... --Charlie
To write such a touching piece you should never feel ashamed. Sadly, some people simply do not have a heart.
Wonderful writing, Take good care Stuart (downunder)
Rosetta was born in 1909 as the youngest of ten children. The family had more laughter than money and neighbors would knock on their door to ask, "Can we come in and laugh, too?"
For a time, I perched myself on a flat rock, comparing my life with the Guyandotte River. Just as its tributaries replenish it daily, changing it in some small—sometimes great—degree, so have the day-to-day occurrences of life changed me. Like the ri
Cryssa
John
good writing, Sara ...
Love Tinka
(((HUGS))) and love, Karla.
Fee
To write such a touching piece you should never feel ashamed. Sadly, some people simply do not have a heart.
Wonderful writing, Take good care Stuart (downunder)
Nice piece.
Sincere regards
Rodney