spilt milk

8 Comments

Poem Commentary

there's a line, once it's crossed we can't go back.  it's impossible to predict exactly where it lies...like a hidden landmine.  love should encompass many things, appreciation, patience, faith, interest, communication, passion, shared vision, and shared responsibility,   it should not be only to the benefit on one, in the interest of one, for the appreciation of one...selfishness will kill it, and whether it kills quickly or slowly doesn't matter in the end...dead is dead.

spilt milk

in every house I've made your home
I have been the ghost that roams
aimlessly wandering through the rooms
staring out windows in lonely gloom

surrounded by your childish clamor
bereft of all my youthful glamor
endless piles of laundry cleaned
scrub the kitchen till it gleams

dish-pan hands are my disease
while beer in hand you take your ease
I lost myself along the way
my neglected heart just couldn't stay

too much responsibility
no love with accessibility
only get what you want to give
this is how you've made me live

haunting my life, a faded specter
so long joy...you pale defector
you left when you were still a dream
abandoned me in this harsh regime

of empty days and loveless nights
constant struggle, futile fights
my freedom is a bitter lie
and here's the hill on which I'll die

I'm not a puppet you can master
you're not my teacher, or my pastor
you've no right to judge me so
you will not dictate what I know

or play your games inside my head
then condemn me to our silenced bed
that sentence I have long despised
false joining in this bed of lies

don't whisper that you love me still
yours is the only heart you fill
at my expense I'd like to add
the illusion that makes you so glad

I'm just your tattered, tainted toy
pretending to be cool and coy
you drag me out when it's time to play
then discard me as you go away

you don't take the slightest care
until you notice I'm not there
then your reviling words abound
as though I'd heed such empty sound

you're background noise, a static hiss
your ass I will not bend to kiss
so what you have no underwear
the laundry room is right downstairs

I'm your wife, not your mother
don't confuse one for the other
I've lived this life of servitude
a sentence spent in solitude

the phantom who did all the chores
does not live here anymore
so make yourself something to eat
and take your own plate to the sink

while you're there you can do the dishes
and fill your head with hopeless wishes
walk in my shoes for awhile
no? you're not that versatile

I'd like to see you stretched this thin
on a knife-edge balance watch you spin
I'm tired of being the invisible center
that holds your randomness together

and compensates for all your flaws
it's thankless and it's without pause
your love's a lure, a blind decoy
  I need a man now, not a boy

so save your sanctimonious speech
my right to live you'll not impeach
or whip me with the lash of guilt
or make me cry over milk that's spilt

there's nothing left for you to plunder
no love that's not been torn asunder
all that's left is my disrespect
what else did you expect?

Poem Comments

(8)

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Nohea517 commented on spilt milk

08-31-2009

As I read your words it's like you've taken a peek into my life. Things I've longed to say but afraid to because what might happen. Very moving.

Erny commented on spilt milk

08-31-2009

found it intertaining.. respectlessly, almost sorrow bound between two adults, yet trueful with feeling, road to distruction as of a marriage, Good writing

Erny

08/31/2009

good writing

oldgoat commented on spilt milk

07-27-2009

Really Great! It speaks well of someone lost in a lonely, painful relationship. The writing is flawless! Hang tuff!

Erny

08/31/2009

yes I agree

ChrisP commented on spilt milk

07-26-2009

You smack me around, my eyelashes on fire, my extremities are on an iron lung. Yet extol you. you are a find writer. I would like to speak with you. I am not, famous last words, Ha- a strange clown face stalker or anything like that. I have given in to me the poet and not the conventional moron. No voodoo here, just words...reach me at Chessemill@gmail.com

Erny

08/31/2009

truely a good writer

Artie commented on spilt milk

07-26-2009

Damn girl!! Let him have it!! You let out this time huh? Good for you. 10 from me.

Erny

08/31/2009

go girl'

Poetry is when an emotion has found its thought and the thought has found words.

Robert Frost (1875-1963) American Poet.

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