It’s been roughly 25-30 years since I’ve written poetry of any kind. This evening, a mood struck, so I acted on it. If you find yourself reading it, great; if you like it, even better. And if you don’t, that’s okay, too. Poetry is art, and art, after all, is subjective.

I Saw You

I saw you the other day.

I didn’t intend to,

But there you were.

Standing, waiting.

I became angry.

I hated you’re face.

I hated myself

For allowing you to evoke these feelings,

For giving you control,

For letting you take what wasn’t yours

All over again.

I contained myself more than I imagined I could.

I know you saw me also.

And I wanted you to know I saw you.

Your failed attempt to quickly look away,

As quickly as you shattered my world,

Was unsuccessful at best.

I saw you,

And I see you.

The person trying to make amends

Only to herself,

The woman hiding behind her pen,

Strong in her textuality,

But cowardly and weak in her person.

I see your attempts to forgive yourself,

Stunted by your inability to feel remorse

And your lack of contrition for your careless destruction.

I look up and see you,

High on your pedestal,

And I look forward to seeing you

When you fall to the cold, hard ground.

I see myself,

And I know myself.

My pettiness.

My spite.

My un-subsiding anger.

I see my weaknesses,

And I see myself struggling,

Desperately seeking strength and control I once had.

Don’t ever be deluded into thinking you see me.

Don’t be blinded by your perception of me.

Don’t mistake my weaknesses for ignorance.

I saw you before I saw you.

I see you when I don’t see you.

Until one day I am able to close my eyes,

Completely immersing myself

Into the darkness you draped over my word,

And reopen them

To a world brightened by your nonexistence.

Where you will remain

Unseen,

Unheard,

Unthought of,

Cloaked in insignificance.