I’ve always fallen for mean ones,
Whose words cut worse than any sheet
Of fine paper, on which there runs
The blood of poets; thick, replete
With red regrets, but freely shed
With tears of masochistic joy.
But how long can a man be bled
Till those same wounds seek to destroy
All confidence he may have felt?
His microscopic sense of will,
Like crayons in the sun, will melt
And puddle; useless, muddled swill,
To cast away with shredded bits
Of wrapper, which could not prevail
Against the fire of her tongue…
And so, as meek protection, fail
To block the heat, and thus are flung
Into the refuse, like my heart,
That with a final beat, departs.
This is an older piece that I’ve always been particularly fond of. Written about my ex. Glad to say that I repaired that attraction to anger and venom and did not make the same mistake with my second wife! :)