She never said
I love you
And really truly meant it
Yet I let her drive
The Porsche
And brought her all
Those bloody books
Living rent free
In my head
Vulnerable
Vulnerabilities
She saw them all
One to ninety-nine
A spiritual vampier
Gladly taking advantage
Me I was happy as Larry
The attention more than welcome
I was already
Damaged goods
A man overboard
Drowning in a sea of chaos
Persistently treading water
And emotionally running on empty
Accepting the scraps
Off her table
One that was already pretty bare
Blind anguish
Poorly disguised
And badly represented
Retrospectively angry
What a losers game
But poetry’s bread and butter
A cleansing of the soul
For all my desperations
And that British sense of imperialism
Life lived with a stiff upper lip
She well and truly broke me
my love it was bona-fide
Much more than I care to acknowledge
Yet I remain alive and kicking
And learning to love the scars
Writing to heal the wounds
A written kind of exorcism
The proverbial cross and garlic
I hold before me
Interpreting the past
Preparing for my future
One that will be spent without her
Rejuvenating my heart
Readying to love again
Embracing pronoia
And asking whatever did she win
Beyond a free ride in a
Mini clubman

© the Dyslexic Poet™🎩
“your Ringmaster”

Original words and thoughts penned of heart & mind of:
©Warren Mace, A.k.a the Dyslexic Poet™🎩
art courtesy of: @Trinitymemyandi

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