Skip to main content

Sorry

I want to say sorry to you.
I could say in lots of lovely
flower-bedecked words.
That is my one gift from God.
But will it unspeak,
undo the words I said?
Ugly, unthinking words
- the abuse of my sacred gift?

What will the sorry do?
It may hide, It will not heal.
The scar will not go away.
I can say stupid things in defence.
I can say I bear things said to me
with a grin and not resent.
So should you.
Foolish things to say.

I can say silly things
that make me pretend
that I have escaped
from the web of guilt
that I have spun for myself.
Only to say something
more imbecile
and fall into my own trap.

Even these words will only
weave that web even more.
I can give you some more
fancy words that mean nothing.
Just lots and lots of words.
One more poem, a little balm
to pretend all is well.
But they are all I have.

But I cannot let go of you.
That I will never do.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

She's complicated

She's complicated. She'll charm you with charts, statistics and that corporate smile. But look into those eyes, they're fiercely bohemian. She's complicated. Her chatterings seem to resonate with happy sounds, but listen with the other ear, to an unhidden lament. She's complicated. Her silences agonise, her voice echoes in her absence. And yet there is a mild dread as her name flashes on the ringing phone. She's complicated. Sometimes she's a poetess, shallow, romantic, trying to hide a sardonic, world-weary wit. She's complicated. She could be a spiteful Fury, wrath unabated, but that's just to hide the lamb-hugging girl within. She's complicated. She's an enchantress, a fool, a tyrant, a nurse, an imp, a priestess, but she's generally a good friend. She's complicated. Published in Making Waves - A Poetry Anthology , ed. Pam & Bill Swyers; Swyers Publishing 2011. ISBN: 978-0-9843113-6-1.
8 comments
Read more

Fit

 What we are is a jigsaw pieces that come together searching for edges that match some we know will never sit: a sideways glance, a crush, a lifelong regret; some we think will last, but no we stick around a while and then we know we are meant for other things, other people, other places but mostly just being othered some of us are corner pieces who know where we are and who will come to find us eventually I can only wish I was that and some of us are that piece that doesn't fit neither color nor shape nor corner we force it sometimes, set it aside for some later unfulfillable hope until it is too late to realise we were left over from another puzzle, with only the longing to fit, to belong, to be included
Post a Comment
Read more

Rat

I'm a rat, I'm a rat, I scurry and I bite, I eat what I get, And I fuck and I fight, I dodge the black crows, I run from your shoes, But I'm old or sick, you'll trample over me.
4 comments
Read more