My First Love

Something’s do not make sense and are better left unexplained. From the hills of the concave womb I’ve waited for a real guy to come and hold my hand. Others say my beauty is on my platted hive of straw, while others say it shines brightly like the law. Sometimes I feel like I have walked away from the battlefields of love a million times, likely like driven cattle in the so called ‘bivouac of life’. Walked into the carpet of secrecy, the ‘ aisle of sorrow’. When I look at the mirror  I could see faded scars healing through the veins of time under the skin of passion, seeing all my friends cry and go crazy when they are dumped makes my heart so sore, gives me fear because every time I see a guy I see a forlon shipwrecked brother trying to vike the heart that feeds it love. I might carry pride in a senseless hand of being me.

Other’s think I’m the ‘intelligent sister’ while others think I’m that fluxive jinx. You might wounder whether the poems I write are my deed or I manage by the well doing steed. I might know what romance is , but never had the taste of it, the kisses, the hugs, the looks and the tricks, my levell’d eyes their carriage ride deeply into my eyes where there are the curls of my shyness. A smile of decades, I’d rather die standing than live on my knees.

A plaintful story I was told by those who have older minds for ere long espied a fickle maid fully pale. The scars I have severe internal pain that makes feel disappointment, secrecy, and betrayal. Sometimes I feel less valuable than a ring of posied gold and bone that are bidden by their sepulchers in mud. The registeration of lies from a man ‘s head into a woman’s heart is like the song of cry O false blood. But what largeness thinks in paradise is sawn. My father believes that I’m valuable than amber, crystal and a beaded jet. Oft twixt May  and April is to see, the day I started tying my hair with a formal plat, that’s when I started to realize that I’m in a boat of savage sailing through a life’s solemn main. But afraid that who will come and hold my hand when it sanks or once the first guy has already had me torn in a tor of being.

Call it the bruises of love , my mom said. Sometimes I realize that her words make the weeper laugh and the laughter weep. But the questions what bounds what rounds does it make for two people to be in love, is it to break each other’s heart or for adjustment of souls.