23 September 2014

love the repeats

It wasn't my first, second, but my third
each memory, vivid, relived in my head
accidentally stomped on my heart 'til it bled
while sharing my story in written word

first hand stories, not something I heard
should entice a reaction, unless you are dead
this has nothing to do with depression or dread
teasing the flesh with a feather of a bird

or get physical, I can take the aggression
smile when I hear leather against flesh, whack
isn't long before you have me bound with rope
time loses all meaning when we're in session

with an opened hand you hit my chest, smack
a rough kind of tender is the way you grope

Petrarchan Poem
Copyright © 2014 by Patrick B Vince

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