I search the dark parts of my heart;
I find the caverns torn apart.
Trusting my fate to a soulless muse,
She primed the charge and lit the fuse.
With a twisted smile she turned the key,
Bones broken, blood spilled, Jubilee!
She swore and spat atop my corpse,
Her love for me completely warped.
On crimson knees I begged! I pleaded!
Her love and lust were all I needed.
For years she was my only focus,
Now for nothing, my succubus.
Like a blind lamb, led to the slaughter,
I followed her to Hell with laughter.
Tossing and tumbling down the hole;
The single desire was her console.
As I lay within the sound of silence,
The vast loneliness of Regret's presence,
Watching with Sorrow the story, my life,
Pass right by me, then leave with Strife.
Twenty years were gone with a snap.
Drugs attempting to fill the gap.
In vain I tried to numb the pain,
But fell in love with Despair again.
Whether or not found Love once more,
Is simply a matter of loss and score.
For my soul and heart are no longer mine,
The muse has chained them within her shrine.
About the Creator
Michael Grube
I am 36 years old, an Army veteran, and officially divorced. I have been writing since i was young and have always been told that I have a knack for it. I've tried my writing a few novels, but my heart lies within poetry and journalism.
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Clinging to Childhood
The playground is empty, as it should be past sundown. There is a warm breeze, and I can see everything despite the late hour. What time is it, anyway? It could very well be past midnight. I can never keep track of time, especially in the summer. A prickly piece of popcorn hides like a stowaway in the left cup of my padded training bra. I stuffed the tissue in last minute— a decision I’m beginning to regret, based on the events that are unfolding rapidly before me. To my left, laying non-chalantly on his back, is my date for the evening. He is two years older, could probably grow facial hair if he wanted to, and drives a secondhand Honda. He may as well be a Man. I, on the other hand, feel like a fraud with my too-short short-shorts, sparkly lip gloss, and makeshift push-up bra. I keep my arms pinned to my sides as I feel the dreaded circles of sweat beginning to manifest on my brand new Abercrombie top. I cup my elbows with my hands and stare down at my hint of cleavage, praying that the tissue doesn’t pop out like a white flag surrendouring my lack of womanhood.
By Marti Maley7 days ago in Fiction
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