Poem of Frustration for Falling in Illusion. {poetry}
{source}
The following poem is meant to give free rein to the derision I felt when a person with whom I shared a year-and-a-half-long staccato relationship disappointed me yet again.
This declaration of anger was also a product of my frustration with myself, for falling, again, in lo… illusion… with yet another man who was ultimately unavailable to my needs, on many levels.
While in the past I wrote poem after poem and angsty overwrought entries in my many journals about profound sadness and longing at the cessation of a love affair (emphasis on affair), I grew disgusted with my own boring heartache. After all, he seemed relieved. I was a rebound, an experiment, a selfish adolescent indulgence due to his almost five-decades-long marriage, 25 of which were sexless.
He wanted to have his cake and eat it too. My cake turned very bitter in my mouth, and it was far more delicious than saccharine faux love and despair. He was never all-in. But yes, we are still friends, sort of… but that’s a poem for another time.
***
Pissed off
tastes better than sad.
Bitterness is sweeter than lies
that lived
in the lair of our mouths
and on the tip
of your snaking tongue.
Oh, look!
The king of rhetoric is texting again.
Knocking at the door of my device.
You sure do love
the sound
of your own voice,
excuses, explanations,
impotent apologies,
and eye-roll inducing equivocations.
Your vacillating actions
annihilated all you claimed we were
We? What “we”?
Take a seat.
One day,
recently you see,
I woke up
and thought…
… no, felt,
“this is it.”
I’ve had it.
I’ve had it
(yet didn’t…)
and I don’t want it.
Not anymore.
There’s the door.
The cerebral speeches
fueled by timid duplicity
patronizing pandering
masked by veiled simplicity
I’m not moved.
Nor in the mood,
to pack
my bags of expectant longing
to travel down your roads of twisted logic
or jet off
on juvenile flights of fancy.
I no longer entertain
the strange reasoning
behind your
renewed vows
to yourself…
… your ‘wise-mind’ fuck
and this foolish insistence of our status
as such spiritual
soul friends.
The hypocrisy
this audacity
from a guy
who apparently
eventually decided that
I suck.
Well, I guess I did, yes.
Quite literally,
in point of fact
when your façade was still engaged,
closed-eyed fantasies
fully intact.
Half-truths have a way
of cancelling out your sermons
of assumed superiority
I’m not down to reminisce
about our first kiss
Or the twisted tangle
of the falsity
that you miss me.
Miss me with that
nostalgia nausea,
my friend.
You mock me
to speak
of our “soul mate” status
until the bitter end.
***
Lisa Guerci‘s longest love affair has been with words, and she sees everything through the lens of poetry. A writer throughout an extremely non-linear life, she believes in the magic of imagination to transform and create. Given to bouts of metaphor, excessive alliteration, and a compulsion to correct grammar, Lisa lives only with a couple of parakeets and twin Hemingway cats in NY. She has worn many hats, of which the one of Poet fits her best.
***
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