Past Imperfect ( Archived) (6)

Old poems drip with venom,
fume like acid on the paper
they have scorched,
and I look back
and don't remember
why my heart
was draining blood
across the floor;
why tears were
acid on my cheeks,
why my hands were
claws to rend, to tear
the soul from some
unsuspecting body
guilty of not loving me
enough, at all.
My anger at myself
carved canyons
in the landscape
of my spirit,
each promise that I heard
unspoken in between
the uttered lines
that tied me to his side
in hope and expectation
fashioned from my dream
of what could be, should be,
the outcome of a smile
a brief encounter or
a month of Sundays
spent in lazy passion
all pastel now, the colour
washed with time
his name an echo
drifting in the wind
as I read words
that have no context
in my today, although
I bled them painfully
and wished to die.

I was sorting through some old notebooks and read some things I wrote almost ten years ago. Such pain and passion and I had forgotten all about it!

Maybe writing it dilutes it.

Thanks for the hug

BTW I have kitty pix up on my profile if you want to "meet" the terrorist.