You Only Want Me For My Words

In My Writing, Poetry by Paul Macklin0 Comments

How could you love me?
You only want me for my words.
If I could colour the wind
with your name,
burn the shape of your
heart
in the clouds
then I would be
what you want of me.
But I give you grief –
a heart that wants to flee –
a soul with no design
and a lock without a key.

How could you? Love me.
You only want me for my words.
If I could change the tides
would you change your mind?
It was yours
I wore
on tattered sleeve,
receding with
the shorter night.
But undressed by drink
I’ve a mind to think,
it’s for luck, not love
that I am alive.

How? Could you love me?
You only want me for my words.
Keep going. Keep going.
Each key a drum, each
scratch of ink a subtle
thrum of melody, whittling
at the hollow trunk
of my chest.
But you know best, I guess,
Oh,
a love for trees
and red hair,
and dark eyes,
sugar lows and
solent sighs.

How could I love myself –
I don’t even want me for my words.

One learns to unshackle
from the whimsy of their words, for
no bottle is big enough
to send my message to the world.

Leave a Comment