i.e., fuck you.
I last read The Captain's Verses
lying in the sun on your bed,
before you re-taught me resentment.
You slept two years ago, and I
in my naivety, found it beautiful.
I could hate you, for the waste of
years, I could thank you, for the
illusion of safety, when all else was
chaos and locked doors. But your haven
became a slow, arduous purgatory.
And you refused to see it.
I've learned, slowly. Because he
did not beat me, it didn't make him
gentle. Because your sins were new,
it didn't make you sanctified. I have
my own absolution to chase after.
Neruda is not for those times, or
for these, he has shown me that all,
all times pass and that nothing can
make that better, or worse, or anything
at all, but life. Life I want, which you don't.
So return to me my poetry, which you
never asked to read anyway. I have
brighter views, sweeter air, now. I
know people who cherish every word,
So, this is the last thing I will ever write
for you.
👁 4💬 0
Something wrong with this poem?
Replies are closed for this poem.
Your Poem's Voice
See what makes your poem unique — its voice, energy, themes, and the literary traditions it draws from.
Comments (0)
No comments yet. Be the first to share your thoughts.
Log in to leave a comment.