We often fight
and you become violent.
Beating my sensibilities.
Your words
and their lack
purple my flesh.
I leave.
You're no good for me.
But after a few days
the words become
more plentiful.
I miss you.
I come back
to your waiting arms
both of us knowing
that the cycle
will repeat.
2 comments:
I know that it's absurd and cruel to compare the writing process to domestic violence, but I feel like poetry has been abusing me lately.
This is a fitting metaphor for how poetry, or writing in general can be, and you shouldn't feel bad about it. If you want to feel better just read some of the shit that Bukowski wrote about. I like how poetry becomes violent and I think the line breaks of poetry speak for it. The title also works as a nice little pun as the speaker leaves, recharges, and comes back to be used up again.
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