He knows,
So I tell him,
And that is when those first words,
Of hatred and violence,
Reach me.
That is when,
Doubt seeps in,
Through undiscovered,
And unsealed wounds,
That have previously been made,
By his unshaven words.
Hypocritical,
Makes the most sense,
But it is only the first of many words,
That he says describe me,
Nothing more,
And nothing less,
And that is the first time,
He sees pain,
Seep out of someone else's eyes,
That aren't his own,
And I don't leave for a while.
I sit in the dark and let him hear,
The sobs that rack me,
Despite how cruel it might seem,
Because even though,
He shouldn't have said them,
He did,
And I know they're true,
Because those same words,
And much worse,
Had been heard by my ears before,
From another man of my blood,
That even though I should've let it,
I did not allow my love to reach him,
But to this one I did.
To this one I tried,
Because trying,
Was something I hadn't done in years,
And it just happened,
To lead me here.
That's what I get for trying.
YOU ARE READING
A Poet's Love Story: A Poet's Collection
PoetryLife, Does not wait, For you. It stirs your emotions, And reforms them, Into wings of flight, And it tests, Weather or not, You will open the cage, And allow yourself, To give up, Or if you will keep the wings calm, And continue to live, And underst...
