In Bed With Stings -- The Muse Mongers Motel Poetry Archives

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Subject: In Bed With Stings

Author:
Mireille

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Date Posted: 20:12:14 01/14/08 Mon

In bed with stings.

Cruel, it is cruel !!! leaving me laying on this mattress of emptiness.
Constance is the name of this field of everlasting growing thorns
Constance is also the name of what I hold as a treasure, a gift it's said.
But the stings won't let it to be seen, to be reached out.
So, why ? I dare to ask. WHY ???

Bruised, raped, abandoned haven't seem enough qualifications
There was another way to torment me, a brilliant manner, indeed.
What is it else, but a daily torture, one I'm not sure to endure long yet.
Still I'm here with a full and almost virgin heart, althought held so high
But it weights tonite, so full of useless it could explode now and there.

Then please let me die.. let me go and feed the ground
I can't bear no longer to not love, to not give,
My basket is so heavy of what I have in store
But I'm not allowed to put in on the diner table.
Set me free, far from this from ever aching blade !

Was it necessary I overcame all these furious days ?
Was it useful to me to travel these years of pain ?
I'm now on the other side, yet, alone and without tenderness,
Without eyes to dive in mines and take the warmth deep inside.
At mid-life, I refuse the second half if it will have the same taste.

Oh, yes, please, push this sword, there deep, deeper
From womb to my mouth, tear me, spread wide my core
And let this heart dry before to bury it and cover it
Of six feet of this coldness I'm used to get sex with.
And please, don't put me in some place of eternity.

Mireille

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