Sing

A new old song. Can there be such a thing? I don't know. But maybe there's such a thing and this is new and old and something I don't have to explain. Here's a 300 and I'll refer to Matisse. And if you're new to my blog that means I'm not discussing the piece, I'm letting it stand on its own. Here's the gist of Matisse for the newcomers: "the job of the artist is to cut out his tongue so that he can never explain his work"

Enjoy!
Kisses, m.


Sing

Sing me a new song he says.
Tell me a new story he says. 
Show me you love me with a smile.

I tell him I need you to show me what it means to be in love with me.
He can’t. 
He doesn’t love me because he loved her yesterday. 
The same way he loves me today. 

Write me a Poem?

Love him with a lie. 

The message beneath his words is loud and clear:

Please don’t hesitate to say or do what I can not.
I’m a coward and I’ll hide behind my words and blame my emotions. 
The same feelings that urge me to love you make me fight unfair. 
I can’t help it. 
Perhaps I’m crazy. 
Irrational.
It’s your fault. 
You know it is.
Isn’t it?
You should love me.

But I don’t love him. I can’t. Not like this. Not ever.

I’d never make this demand of someone I loved.
I know if he really did love me he wouldn’t need a song, a story, a poem. 
I need this he says.
It’s my oxygen. 
My sustenance. 
I can’t breath without it he says.

And I can’t help but… 

run. 
run. 
run. 

As fast as I can. 
Away from the thing I can not give. 
It’s not love you want from me. 
It’s an ideal. 
An ideal image I can never be. 

So here’s your song, your story, your poem. 
Here are those things you begged of me. 
To show you how I felt.
Well I feel nothing.
Not even love. 

So take these words, 
Like a sword to the heart. 
Let them wound. 
Let them slice. 
Take out the lie that lives in your head and heart. 
Because you don’t know what love is. 
You can’t even love yourself. 
And you don’t love me.