My body is no longer a vase.
As my heart craves for something beyond the unknown,
the push-down idea of falling, happily, and gracefully.
Contradicting all I write about, the gentle words move into lust and hatred.
Those heart-breaking, soul-shattering, gut-wrenching, non-existent feelings
on how Hollywood plays them out so dauntingly,
pretending that it will all play out like the movies: though they never do.
Shattered, broken and fragmented.
Though I beg so flirtatiously that I be saved,
by a man, by a woman, by someone brave.
I hawk down the ears of others, the false prophets they believe about love.
The relics their loved ones shared after the long bitter divorce
lay loathsome next to the broken vows of enslavement to another cold being.
After the summer night outs diminish,
they are left with lonely and mediocre feelings,
settling for the appropriate restricted type.
(The ones Mum told us to be accustomed to),
the forever feeling of Hiraeth plays on your tongue.
Wishing your youthful truths hadn't been so tame,
filling in the documented forms years later;
eyes still tired and your heart unmoved.
YOU ARE READING
Hiraeth
Poetry(n). A blend of homesickness, nostalgia and deep longing for something, especially one's home in Wales; an ode to the loss of our homeland, our language and our traditions. •I update this quite infrequently :(•
