It'll happen soon,
That's always the promise.
Never today,
Never for sure,
Maybe tomorrow.
And I'm furious,
Fed up with being made second best.
Am I even second,
Or is that just ignorant hope?
I've been pushed to the deep,
Dark recesses of his mind.
No wistful dreams to hold me over,
Hit in the face with the icy water of truth.
I sit and stare into the space,
Where my dreams once were.
Where I once held to endless possibilities.
Those images in my head,
They've been slashed through.
Burgundy strokes of anger,
Flooding the pictures,
Damaging them beyond repair.
Life must push on,
Unkept promises will be discarded,
His hold on me has been released.
A contest entry
- Wordbank by strangerforeigner.
600 points, ended January 14, 9 entries
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
Please tell me what you think
Comments
-
Nice use of the wordbank, very smoothly done. Thanks for entering!
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This is a very poignant poem. Nobody likes to be second best. It is heartbreaking. Very good job.
Mike
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