How I Spent My Weekend, Opus XXVII

Unreal

“Delusional;” the term is fair.
The false beliefs that she is what
She's not, and that she longs
For me are apparitions. Still,
They're there, obscuring what
I will not see. There's so much
I refuse to see. The woman,
Pledged to someone else, a
Shallow thing, whose tepid
Fondness rests upon my
Tethered tongue. She whines.
She'd rather I not speak.
The wife at home, dissatisfied
With everything and everyone,
And, therefore, always filled
With fury. And myself,
An empty vessel, drained
Of hope, of interest in any
Facet of my life. I've wanted
So to be refilled that I have
Snatched a nearby woman,
Shaped her into what she's not,
And have her floating in the
Air, delusion, blocking all the
Things I'd rather not perceive.



Real

I will lie to you, I always do,
And to myself, sometimes
Unknowingly, but I don't lie
To her. I cannot tell you why.
I know she's strong. She doesn't
Break. She may not have much
Use for me, so I could lie and be
Found out, and watch her shrug
Away the pain. I think she's
Done her share of that. I'd
Rather that she got from me,
Even if she doesn't care, the thing
That you and I can't get:
My unimagined self.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 65 times
Written on 2015-08-03 at 02:54

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