"Dear me!" isn't enough here. It's more like, "Good GRIEF!" I was almost too embarrassed to post this one, but then I thought: maybe there's a lesson in here for someone who surfs by. A lesson about low self-esteem and bad poetry.
Perhaps I should have titled this "Forever pulling down my pants"! Or the more succinct "Doormat". When will we girls ever learn? When do we open our eyes and see the ride for what it is?
Forever pulling down his days,
turning special moments sour,
being there when I'm not wanted,
dragging it out hour by hour.
Something somewhere is going wrong.
Something tells me that it's just me.
Somehow I'm not good enough
and we both end up feeling empty.
We make love and the next second he's dressed,
while I lie there sated but feeling like a whore.
And when he leaves, his kiss is cold,
and he's hurt as I've hurt him so many times before.
He very rarely asks for much,
but the times I've responded are so few to recall.
Yet he still loves me, I wonder why?
I love him but somehow can't give him my all.
I wonder if I'll ever do it right,
when I'll learn to put his feelings before mine,
to give him, without making an effort,
the intoxicating shivers of love's sparkling wine.
(written on Dec 23rd, 1985, at 8:15 pm)