always hated describing my feelings... and only desired that my feeling be interpreted by another person as they desired and therefore poetry seemed to be the best way to portray my own feelings. so here goes. A poem that i have written today.
my heart is far from the door
like a prostitute at Mont marte
my heart throbs
but not from the satisfaction of lust.
The heart beats out of rhythm
from the on that proposes his love
love, lust
the same?
my mirror image.
This fear that beats within my heart
fear to loose fear to live, fear to be
fear to accept what is lost.
And she stands there, my mirror self
naked and bare., in the silence
dirt all over, thrown to the ground.
The neighbour, NO! that "BITCH!"
empties her chamber pot
the fools throw down their, pity crumbs
left overs that should be given to pigs!
I was a beauty and now
in a new, anew
place i am a courtesan
playing to the fantasy of man. (trust me, not just men alone, women as well)
Their fantasy and i am thrown out again
I am no fanny hill
Don Juan visited my bed and
he consumed me, leaving me an empty shell.
I no longer feel, as they do away
no not ! I she does not
feel I still remember the kindness
they drop on me.
The little girl of mont marte
they called sweet things "my love"
"my sweet" Now "WHORE ! " is my name
fucking away, beating heartily.
They label us, they make us
play their fantasy and i can no longer
be her , no I believe it is wrong.
In the gutter ! we sleep, we pick up the
crumbs and be as close to the dogs
the rats my minions
the sewers my hiding place, my saftey
and catacomb.
I am her
the sun sets on my abode
my alley way where i am given
no more a woman of meat, a bone a flesh.
Spirit attached to the Earth
and i climb higher
a new place, a greater height
on the roof, the church steeple as my footstool.
And I am, she becomes and we
live
to see, to be that little girl of
Mont marte
the belle of my city, the sky her roof
Earth her floor
I am, and I am
the becoming.
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