Tears and questions

Cry. Cry. Cry.
The tears fall from your eyes in a crocodile manner that
You expect me to believe. If I only reach down your throat
And retrieve your heart from your chest, you’d appreciate
The painful predicament I’m in. Although I suppose that
If my hand were to dive in, I’d find no heart therein.

Lie. Lie. Lie.
The tears fall again and with no concept of what the
Truth is you tell me she’s just a friend, even though I’ve
Seen enough with my own eyes to know these are lies.
Again you tell me that you love me in the vain hope that
I’ll believe the words of a well-rehearsed liar.

Why. Why. Why.
I ask the question on repeat and you answer in neat little
Sentences that offer no explanation for my humiliation
Because, as you claim, you don’t know why you did it.
You don’t know you lied and why you hid it. And I don’t
Know why, after such embarrassment, I’d come back to you.

The abstract truth

If abstract is changeable, theoretical, is the truth abstract? An
Unstable perception of how someone sees something from a
Perspective that is blurred by their own desires. Blurred by what
They themselves want people to see. Arguably the abstract truth
Of things will shift between you and me. I will see one thing while
You will see another; you’ll see her as a friend while I see her as
Your ex-lover. We neither of us are wrong, but right in our own
Perception of the situation. Perhaps truth is abstract, not a set
Reality but something we merely construct in our own mind.
Maybe that’s the reason why you lied.

The Writer's Wife

The Writer’s Wife. She doesn’t have much of a life, never did;
Always working to keep her real feelings hid in case her husband
Looks at her face, picks up on a trace of something worthy of
Writing down. Every smile, every frown. It ends up on paper for
Someone to critique, and while everyone “oohs” and “ahhs”,
Praising it for being unique, they remain unaware that the
Emotion has been torn off the face of the Writer’s Wife. Not
Much of a life. Every argument is on paper and while she tries
To move on, her husband drags up the past one rhyme at a
Time for the sake of his “art”, unaware that every poem is a
Scar upon her heart. The Writer’s Wife, not much of a life,
Although she started out as a muse; after suffering a marriage
Of emotional abuse, she has become just a tool to amuse.

A Cinderella Story

A Cinderella story is a complete misrepresentation of what we go
Through. We have to do so much more than that girl had to do.
She didn’t doll herself up to make herself look fitter. No. She
Just went to a party, lost some glass slipper. And BANG. There
Prince Charming was. And he immediately adored her simply
Because… That’s right, nobody knows. She went on a night out,
Lost a shoe, which is something the best of us do, but somehow
She ended up with a guy. Annoyingly she didn’t even try. Then
They moved in together, got married, had kids (seriously who
Was naïve enough to think up this?), and they did it all whilst
In love, without nerves or trepidation. Has there ever been a
Bigger misrepresentation?

I'm just tired

I’m just tired. I’m working so hard on assignments that you
Read and discard as another “good piece of work”. I dream
Of revision, and approach everything with the apprehension
That one carries with them into an exam. People tell me to
Leave my exam nerves at home but I don’t think I can, even
When there is no exam in sight, I still feel like there is an
Answer that I’ll need to get right. I’m just tired. I’m trying
Constantly to be better, to push my marks up by a grade
Boundary or a letter just so someone will say, “Well done
You, we knew you could do it.” Which is a remarkable remark
For someone who didn’t have to go through it. You have so
Much faith in my ability, you never expect a disappointment
From me and that’s what makes it so tiring. I’ll dress to
Impress and cause myself distress for the sake of keeping
Other people down. For the sake of keeping other people
Content. And I’ll work with a smile, even though all the
While I’m working, I’m working with resent.

A forget me not

I wonder if when you read this, which we both know you will, you’ll
Know that I’m talking about you. It’s kind of a thrill. As the writer I
Know what I’m talking about but as the reader you’re just trying to
Figure me out. There seems to be an irony in that, given that you
Know me so well. But irony isn’t the topic on which I wish to dwell.
The topic, I’m afraid to admit, is you. Ridiculous I know but yes, it’s
True. The rhyme scheme and enjambment is entirely for you. Perhaps
You’ll be so concerned with literary technique you’ll overlook the words
That the writer (that’s the role I play) is trying to speak. So, I miss you.
Not all the time. In fact there are times when I’m glad my days are
Entirely mine and that they don’t have to be shared. But there are
Also times when I miss the times of comfort, when you cared. I miss
The cuddles and the occasional row when I’d think you were an idiot
And you’d think I was a moody cow although the words would never
Pass our lips. It’s unfortunate that it’s come to this. Semi-anonymous
Words on a page being carelessly left on my internet stage where I
Am the playwright, writing to amuse. No one really knows that I’m
Writing to a muse. You’ll read it and momentarily entertain the idea
That you’re the person I’m talking about here. Then shaking your
Head you’ll say, “No, of course not.” And this will become another
Poem that someone read, and then forgot.

Eco-friendly liar

Oxymoron: an expression with contradictory words. A bit like you,
When the actions you act out, contradict the words you say and the
Words I’ve heard. “No, of course you haven’t done anything darling”
You say, as you turn your phone off and walk away, prepared to
Ignore my texts for the rest of the day. Admittedly, I’m possibly
Paranoid and maybe I haven’t done anything wrong. But someone
Quite obviously has. “I’m just busy” on a Saturday afternoon when
You have nothing to do but go into town to buy a new pair of jeans.
Yeah, I know what you mean. I can see what a time-consuming
Activity that’s going to be. Maybe you’re just taking things out on
Me. Definitely wouldn’t be the first time. “The problem isn’t yours,
It’s mine” which works until I’ve had my fill of being pushed a way
For something I haven’t done, or so you say. You’ve found the time
To read the message but not reply, which you explain with another
Believable lie as you tell me you loved me and that you’ve missed
Me all day. I’ll believe it. On account of being an idiot who finds
Comfort in the words you say, that I’ve already heard, and that I’ll
Hear again another day. You’re quite eco-friendly when it comes to
Literacy. You always recycle the lies you tell me.