Sometimes it’s easier to write poetry when,
You’re not counting syllables yet I,
Find there’s no rhythm when you don’t,
Not enough words to describe life,
At times it’s a gong show,
I can’t seem to win,
Change can be hard,
Experience, leaves burns,
Never healing on your body,
Not salvaging the heart scars,
Heart yearns for an echo, one whose,
Heart shares its rhythm, no absence found,
By others who damaged our souls, hearts, skin.
Perhaps, it begins, subtle opening.
Free time amazing, loneliness still,
Staying away from danger, they,
Who suck you dry for one night,
Leave without even notes,
Boxing the night into,
Their life pattern,
You’ll get bee stung,
Learning that you hurt,
With each bed sheet stumble,
Never having anyone there,
Returning home to empty rooms,
Shadows flickering in lamplight glows,
Home alone, no face taking her visage.
Woman who broke your heart, beat your soul dead.
So you do the same to other women,
Leaving them lost, confused, tormented,
Promises you made never came,
Long gone you keep playing,
Filling up empty,
Strainer has holes,
You can’t fix,
See a man,
Not merely bent,
Willing to work through it,
To let the path waters,
Flow, guide through trepidation,
Steps you must take for perdition,
Coming alive, fire consumes through pain,
Living life, though it hurts so good loving.
©Mandibelle16. (2016) All Rights Reserved.