Old Wounds

You never forget not being loved,
it seeps like old wounds,
the taste and texture
left on cotton wool tongues.
Appetite blunted,
tears that pride refuses to fall.
It is like the smell of
wood smoke in the air,
it permeates your clothes and hair;
and afterwards you sit
in steaming baths and rub,
hiding eyes behind candlelight
so that the only sparkle people
see, is bounced straight from
crystal glasses that shine
prisms on white walls.
Echoes blink, as years pass,
and perhaps your hand
will tremble just a tad or so.
Yet the smiles you project
Still hold fast the
hurt inside.



Poetry by Elle The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 709 times
Written on 2015-03-28 at 19:38

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Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
This is an outstanding poem, Elle. I enjoyed it, but I remain thankful for being too shallow to suffer such enduring pain. I've been not loved many times. Hell, it's not certain that I'm loved now.
2015-03-29


jenks The PoetBay support member heart!
Your wounds have strength.
I like very much the clarity of thought you write here. All remembered and expressed so factually. You love words Elle, and it shows.
2015-03-29


shells
This is powerful in it's beauty of such sadness and I agree, the first line is a stunner.
2015-03-28


josephus The PoetBay support member heart!
Elle, I think you've hit on an obscure but universal truth and as Jim says, its all in the first searing line. The rest is a perfect exploration of that line.
2015-03-28


jim The PoetBay support member heart!
The first line will have me thinking for days, I know it, I felt myself go back.

For the those who know the feeling, your poem is perfect.
2015-03-28