Best Disfigured Poems
Love is but a mist that veils the moon,
A beautiful instrument played out of tune.
Love is but a lion that after the hunt devours it’s pray,
And leaves the bare carcass to rot away.
Love is a gentle ghost trapped in a material world of nothingness,
Which is felt, but in this world rarely seen.
A falsehood found on every lovers lips, that lies and poisons the heart,
For sorrow never sleeps, the broken heart is left dead to weep.
Gentle hands that once did hold in love are now stained in blood.
Voices that laughed and gently wooed, now speak cruelly out of tune.
Bodies and souls that were wrought together are now parted, foe for ever.
Sweat melodies and warm gentle breeze, smells of jasmine,
rose and herb no longer fragrant the lovers world.
Stagnant air of love lost has but one thick pungent smell of complete despair.
Soft, frail words from another voice are spoken, like a poets spell the despondent
heart awoken, as it gently heals love is given but another chance to leave its cold
and bloodied mess.
In the shadows of the dark love lurks with quivering bow to hide the arrow of such
woe, for every arrow that hits its mark leaves a disfigured heart when succumbed
to a mediocre love. Courageously fight and battle for true love for ego has no
winner.
Let the Archers arm be true and find but one heart, one love, for me and you.
Displaced
shattered
disfigured.....
aching on the ground
I fall into the stream of disregard
forgotten by all
I thought held me
in contempt of heart...
brittle skeletons
left to move
fast through vast
dreams and memories
left to be stranded, to be strong
and I wonder
can I do it
and be proud
of who I am
of who I was
before you
branded me
bruised me
before you stole my generations
before you knelt in front of me eye to eye
and stole my crown like a wolf in sheep's clothing
and I stand bare,
as you walk this earth…
a martyr with everything,
plus my strength,
my heart and all it had to give
you walk
and the smile
you ripped from my face!
do you wear it proud?
skeletons in your closet now
how close do they lay
to the surface of your skin
as you sleep at night?
This pool of abandonment
drowns my last breath of life
and I try to walk
bent
but I am not dead-written by-amy everett
written for CT
mother
here no longer
but forever judged
you were everything
the self-sacrificing
source of all love and comfort
and all rage and rejection
you made me
and i am somehow part of you
and i was your mirror
showing what you did not want to see
weakness, neediness
the object of your shame and self-loathing
now
(just like me)
instead of producing a bouquet of roses
I disfigure this ode to motherhood
Someone disfigured our car
And really, I think, went too far.
No tires were slashed;
No windshield was smashed
But the perps seemed to lower the bar.
A sticker was placed on the back
Which felt just like a coward’s attack;
On the metal, not bumper
And left by a Trumper,
Both reason and cause it did lack.
My husband did what he could do
And scraped it all off, but some glue
Seemed to stick; what he saw
Still is stuck in my craw –
Seeing red makes me feel much more blue.
A poem about the recent loss of my identical twin sister. I love and miss you, sis...
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there were two of me
once
not in the way people mean
when they talk about reflection
or similarity
or matching outfits in photographs
i mean two heartbeats
that learned each other
before language
before memory
before the world could name us separate
you were not beside me
you were with me
woven through one another
a second nervous system
a quiet, constant knowing
i never had to reach for
blue eyes
identical to mine
but still entirely yours
and now
reality keeps insisting
i am singular
as if that is not an amputation
as if i have not been bisected
without anesthesia
in a way that leaves no clean edge
no visible place to point and say
“this is where she was.”
i walk around
with an invisible wound
something missing
mutilated
i was torn apart
and whatever held me together
went with you
people look at me
and see a whole body
but i feel
disfigured
expected to live
without a vital organ
who am i
without the person
who made me make sense
who am i
without the witness
who knew me before i became
someone existent
they tell me
you are still here
in my laugh
in my hands
in the small, indescribable things
but that feels like
being asked to accept fragments
as a whole
i don’t want traces
i want what was ripped from me
as something outside of me
someone i could turn toward
someone who could look back
and lay your head on my shoulder
not this silence
stitched over
where you used to be
nerve endings exposed
left this way
there is no buffer
to help make sense of the world
turned inside out
like all the parts meant to be protected
are suddenly visible
and still
somewhere beneath the damage
beneath the wrongness of being only one
there is a thread
that did not break
i feel it
in the quiet moments
once filled with your voice
not gone
just unreachable
like a room in a house
i no longer have the key to
there were two of me
once
and even now
in ways i cannot prove
or properly survive
there still are.