A long time ago
I wrote a poem for a girl
whose beauty and grace
was captivating, enthralling
but who was also
with a ferocious mind
filled with knowledge
and passion.
She lit up my days,
plagued my dreams,
and when I woke
after a night of dreaming
she possessed my thoughts.
I was rendered useless
after having known her.
In a fit of fury, an attack
on reason itself,
I let emotions flow
through my pen
and attack her heart
in a violent rapture
with which
she had attacked mine.
I massed up the courage
to hand her the letter,
she knew who I was but
she didn’t know who I was,
and I didn’t know
what I was doing.
As the letter left my hand
and I walked away,
my face glared red
and I strayed away
from sight.
I fled and ignored
everyone and everything,
crawling into the cave
from which I came,
berating myself
for trying to
be worthy.
I’ve hid with a quiet shame
for years, remembering
the words I wrote to her.
Mature composure and
reasonable regret
helped me
to forget
the all-encompassing
clouds of passion
but it also helped me
break away
from the ocean of isolation
I surrounded myself with
and build myself up
with an army of friends
and other lovers.
I thought I was doing great...
Until years down the line,
I saw her when she came
back to our hometown
to visit.
She wandered the world,
I never left.
We were as different
as two colored doves,
flying on different paths.
I thought I was doing great,
until she showed me that letter
I once wrote so long ago,
creased and wrinkled
from the war with time.
How she told me
she kept it hidden
in the corner of her mind,
how she let my emotion
paint on the canvas
of her imagination,
how she wondered
where I wandered off to,
searching but
never finding
Now it is too late,
she’s pledged to another.
I am older and wiser
and no longer devastated
by that love unrequited.
But some days and forever after
I still occasionally visit
the face of the one
who stole my mind
day and night...
and my heart skips a flutter


Secret, Feeling, Kindred, Spirit, Love, Unrequited, Beauty, poem, poetry, parker, jennings

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Robert L. Martin
over 5 years

Yeah, that's for sure

Parker Jennings
over 5 years

Thanks. I had to re-edit this after realizing all the typos. I was in a rush as the coffee shop I was in was ushering me out to close.
I usually edit before I publish but the poem demanded to be seen sooner rather than later

Parker Jennings
over 5 years

I think the confidence of the writer lies within his/her words on page. When spoken towards a face that's actively listening, the words (especially when expressing dangerous emotion) appear heavier, slower, sluggish even...
making the interaction a heavy load to carry.
Easier to run away then to confront.
But not better.

Robert L. Martin
over 5 years

I did the same thing that you did, and still regret not communicating with her after I gave her what I wrote. I still regret what I had done.

over 5 years

Lovely poem. Great work

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Cory Garcia Imrogue Vic

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