Her eyes compelled them to stare, and her mouth laughed
at the madness.
What was she to do with this yearning that forced her to
make prey
Men who would become ensnared in her aura?
She never invited them in, she was never a hunter.
But, seemingly her very presence was enough to awaken
primal urges.
She had once asked a lover what made him fall in love
with her,
He had become animated like a child recounting a trip to
the beach,
For him it was everything about her.
She who had always seen imperfection in herself
Found his response trite, it could not possibly be
everything.
But, he insisted,
So she gave up.
She was interested in him, and convinced herself that she
loved him.
She did nice things for him, nice, that was his word.
He loved her.
He had once bragged to his friends that he had found his
bride.
She was never as sure as he was.
They lasted for about two years, and she went into a
season of deep poetry.
She hid herself from the world.
They thought that she was heart -broken.
She wrote some of her best poems during that time.
Then there was the musician.
He lived to prove every assumption about his kind true.
She was amused.
He had come over to her as she sat with friends at a
restaurant.
She had always found men who interrupted her gatherings uncouth.
She dismissed him.
He persisted.
She relented.
She figured she would give him a night of unbridled
passion and then he would be gone.
He did not go.
For an entire year he kept returning.
She began to grow restless and began avoiding his calls.
She would argue with him for being late, and for showing
up on time.
She would argue with him for sleeping over, and for
leaving in a hurry.
She argued.
He became frustrated.
He left.
She wrote poems about epic battles, witches, and scorned
lovers.
Three more episodes of love, passion, and hurt and it
dawned on her…
Her best poems were never those written ink.
Her best poems were written in sweat, tears, and blood.
Her best poems came after a season of love, sex, and
betrayal.
So she began to see each new affair as an opportunity.
The lovers came and went.
Short affairs forced her to write, so she developed
patience.
Long affairs, tortured her very soul;
Her fingers did not move fast enough, and so her mind
would scream.
She soon understood that pain was a necessary element of
her poetry.
She was not the type of poet to write about brilliant
suns, and daffodils.
Her poetry was dark pain that could only come from having
truly lived.
Her poetry was best when she held back nothing, when she
revealed her very soul.
So, she loved.
She lived.
She wrote.
Adriana King ©2014
Posts
