Sunday, February 9, 2014

The Broken Wine Glass

The Arts - Poetry---

The Broken Wine Glass
by
Ric Couchman


It clings to me -
The hate.
The hate,
O, it clings to me.
I can't shake it off;
It's impaled in me.
I hate her
(I can't help myself.),
But I also love her.
When she screams at me,
The spit flying into my face,
I think vengeance -
Vengeance, vengeance,
Vengeance.
To destroy her is my desire.
Her destruction is that which I seek,
But I am afraid,
So very afraid.
I loathe having that thought;
I want it rooted out,
But I also take some delight in it.
She doesn't believe in 'sorry'
That's what she says.
She doesn't believe in 'sorry'
So she says.
I said 'sorry' when I broke the wine glass.
She screamed at me and hit me.
But I am a liar;
These are all lies.
You cannot trust me.
My life is a lie.
Am I lying now?
Why am I smiling?
Why do I move my arms?
Is this my face?
Am I here?
I am afraid of lying.
Should I spill it?
I want to say it,
To relieve myself,
To get it off my chest,
But I fear the embarrassment...
I desire attention.
There!
I said it.
Wasn't so hard, after all.
But the hate...
How do I get rid of it?
How do I get rid of it?
Do you have siblings?
Are siblings good to have?
That's why I use my imagination.
I have everything, you know.
I lack nothing...
But it's lonely in my room.
I have everything;
She has given me everything,
But still I am lonely.
The hate clings to me;
It has taken root.
I can actually smell it.
The hate.
It is like the smell of a cockroach -
Nauseating.
It smells like a cockroach -
Disgusting.
She gives me everything;
I lack nothing.
It's all lies; I am a liar.
My life is one big lie.
I hate that I am a liar.
Am I lying now?
I don't know anymore.
I know not this or that.
I know not tomorrow.
Today I know not.
I know not yesterday.
Is this yesterday?
Is this today?
Is this tomorrow?
I am afraid of forgetting.
I've traveled widely,
Been to many places,
Done many things,
But I remember nothing.
I have forgotten all;
I recollect nothing.
All I seem to remember....
Is what occurs in my room,
And what happens there
I would rather not disclose.
Ah...my dewy pearls...
My dear, dewy, salty pearls...
I feel like these tears
That run down my cheeks,
Cold and bitter,
Going nowhere,
And about to evaporate.
Can't you see it?
The hate?
It's there.
It's there.
It will be my destruction.
It clings to me like a cockroach.
She clings to me like a cockroach.
She clings...
To me...
Like a cockroach.
It's there.
She's there.
She will always be there.



[Photographic Art by Ric Couchman]