where are the bricks to wall up my heart?
where are the corks to block up my tears?
where is the gauze to cover my wounds?
where are the ropes to tie up my legs
where is the gag to stop up my mouth
where is the armor to flatten my breasts
and where is the one
to teach me the truth
that better than nothing
is nothing at all.
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5 comments:
i really really liked this one. it stomped along like an army going into war - impecible rhythm.
Where? In your heart and your soul's will. *smiles* But then I suspect you know that. *winks*
You certainly did a great job expressing that feeling...
Reading this over, it occurred to me that my intent may not have come through. The problem with poetry - metaphors create the possibility of misinterpretation.
This is not a poem about sadism. The wounds are to my heart, and the ropes, the gag, the armor, these are all to keep me from succumbing to the temptation of sex without passion. Was that clear?
mamacrow - I'm glad you mentioned the rhythm. My torturing teacher is quite taken with my use of rhythm, and in fact has pointed out to me how much I use it, making me more conscious of what I do.
greenwoman - my fear is that my will isn't strong enough, which is why submissive people like me need to be scooped up and instructed and controlled and saved from themselves.
i'm kinda addicted to rhythm. i rather suspect you are too!
mamacrow - i AM addicted to rhythm it seems. but then i was a dancer of sorts, occasionally still am, and a drummer for a while - but not a very good one. Always a little late. I think i'm better following my own internal rhythm than laying down one that someone else has set.
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