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.