It was Tuesday when he left me
and Friday when he returned.
Nothing had changed,
he still stunk of stale smoke
and wore lager on his pulse points.
My nails scratched at the dried blood
covering his name on my arm.
There were thirty eight lines beneath it,
one still fresh and bleeding.
The pain had blocked out
his memory. My memory.
Now his face scowled at me,
screwed up and old. With vague
recognition I squeezed my arm.
Nothing had changed.
In a list
Please tell me what you think
Comments
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This poem carries a whole lot of sadness within the lines and I think you've displayed that wonderfully with the imagery you have used here
Also the metaphors are truly a joy to read, eventhough the write is filled with emotions...
Very well done
Leander -
very different . sounds like a bender gone wrong. I will definatly not judge by the outside cover. this one leaves me wondering about what is going on as the poem does that and is meant to. I would say kick his sorry ass out on the street.
. Rewarded 4
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