melissaahowells
521,210 poems read
The Soul Searches
The same dull grey ball bouncing.
The same dull note sounding
with the plodding pluck of the key.
You were tired tired tired of me.
You looked into yourself
and couldn't stand the thought
of an apology.
And who was the one apologizing?
Me, so used to soliloquies.
Me, with the stink of your disease.
Me, so used to making other plans.
Me, so gaunt
and trying to flaunt
it mostly alone.
You, the admirer of my skin and bones.
Comparing me cheaply to a
five hundred dollar suit
or a ripened fruit
for you to pluck.
How you appraised
the look of a woman on your arm.
And how it lent
you some temporary charm
to your dull grey sameness.
Your unimagined imaginary world
void of pearls
and full of swine...
the borrowing lending kind
with the ability to take it all back
at the drop of a hat
or a whim.
Or the prick of your pen.
To make all who live in the lack;
the true calling of a professional hack.
I can hear you banking it still on that singular note
resounding in my distant dreams,
where you sometimes scream.
Why do you come back to me...
at all, at all, at all?
And, so, the answer has finally come
in many unhappy returns and dividends
I am
the reluctant soul always looking
for once too familiar friends
who have borrowed something
that isn't quite their own
and was forever on loan...
and never was properly cared for
something you've never said a prayer for,
that something,
wasn't me.
inspired while listening to the all-night radio
thank you to that purveyor of wisdom who finally answered my nagging question
and opened my "third eye."
Copyright June 9, 2012 Saturday All Rights are Definitely Reserved By This Author
Melissa A Howells
Meloo from her Tilt-a-World
The same dull note sounding
with the plodding pluck of the key.
You were tired tired tired of me.
You looked into yourself
and couldn't stand the thought
of an apology.
And who was the one apologizing?
Me, so used to soliloquies.
Me, with the stink of your disease.
Me, so used to making other plans.
Me, so gaunt
and trying to flaunt
it mostly alone.
You, the admirer of my skin and bones.
Comparing me cheaply to a
five hundred dollar suit
or a ripened fruit
for you to pluck.
How you appraised
the look of a woman on your arm.
And how it lent
you some temporary charm
to your dull grey sameness.
Your unimagined imaginary world
void of pearls
and full of swine...
the borrowing lending kind
with the ability to take it all back
at the drop of a hat
or a whim.
Or the prick of your pen.
To make all who live in the lack;
the true calling of a professional hack.
I can hear you banking it still on that singular note
resounding in my distant dreams,
where you sometimes scream.
Why do you come back to me...
at all, at all, at all?
And, so, the answer has finally come
in many unhappy returns and dividends
I am
the reluctant soul always looking
for once too familiar friends
who have borrowed something
that isn't quite their own
and was forever on loan...
and never was properly cared for
something you've never said a prayer for,
that something,
wasn't me.
inspired while listening to the all-night radio
thank you to that purveyor of wisdom who finally answered my nagging question
and opened my "third eye."
Copyright June 9, 2012 Saturday All Rights are Definitely Reserved By This Author
Melissa A Howells
Meloo from her Tilt-a-World