Best Spousal Poems
She is a low life skank
Trailer trash honey
Dressing all up
And taking your money
But I would trip her if I saw her
And spill my coffee on her dress
And make her into disheveled mess
And yes darlin,
She done you wrong,
So I wrote this song....
Your wife should not napalm your life
To sleep with all your friends
That was no way to make amends
It makes her just a hussy
And a low class ****
And there is no makeup or outfit That can dress that up
You can’t pull that kind of high jinx
And expect any man,
to ever fall for you again
So she will be alone, just wait and see
And we can sing about it and someday laugh you will see
Love you Cowboy Poet, this was not your fault . (C) Artimus Susan Manley 10:55 AM 10/30/23
He said "Look what you made me do!"
his words that had turned her black and blue.
Her children's eyes are scarred for life,
they saw their father beating his wife.
They don't
remember what their daddy did,
a child's memories can be sadly dismissed..
They grow up claiming their father's stories,
it's the abuser who claims the glory.
A wife who suffered from his blows,
his actions that cut her very soul.
His tongue spit words of violence and hate,
hiding, she wouldn't allow her pain to escape.
She held them close, with every single word,
then took them with her out the door.
She said "Look what you made me do!"
her words, like his, rings true.
She left him sulking in all his pity,
his begging bringing about a religious committee.
The elders wouldn't let them divorce,
unless adultery was the main course.
But she was determined to leave her abuser,
she knew he'd always be an abusive loser.
All these things were over looked,
by the committee, the elders and the sacred book.
No one helped her in the end,
they all turned against her, family and friends.
She battled against all of them,
her strength and will by them condemned.
She left them all, and never excused,
her favorite quote, "Look what you made me do."
This poem is sad and accurately true,
behind closed doors,
her bruises faded from black to blue.
She recovers in due time,
And celebrates a wonderful life.
He said he would never hit her again
She wanted to believe him of course
Sincere and apologetic
Her children begged her not to
Her parents were askance
She has been killed now
A child sad
Abuse is
Living
Rage
The faerie girl had been warned of Master’s temper more than once,
But she had seen a glimmer of a smile, and she liked the way he looked at her.
She decided to try, for she knew that she could find his good.
She would make him love her, for something. She would smooth out his creases, and iron him in clean new ways, present him in a new light to the naysayers who were so mean about him. No one is all bad, right?
She would help him begin anew, and reinvent himself.
A psychopath? No. A sociopath? Never! She liked the look of the man.
For twelve long years she gave Master big giant bunches of herself – emotionally, spiritually, and psychologically. She gave and gave and gave, not realizing the cost, until she had almost nothing
left for herself.
Her wings had stopped working. Her hair was a mess, her spirit was spent, she was depressed, and sad, all the time.
She did not recognize even an imperceptible glimmer of hope in herself.
She no longer lived her truth.
She had championed him until there was nothing left of her.
The faerie council and dwarf committee decided to intervene. They asked if they could carry her off, and nurture her, and love her, and nurse her back to health. Her self-absorbed Master laughed at their meager attempts to save his toy.
He shooed them away like the fluffs of dust they were, glorying in Faerie Girl’s all-consuming protection of him, reveling that she was willing to give him her persona, feelings, and pixie dust.
The day of her death, he replaced her with a fresh, new, optimistic, ready-to-save-him faerie without giving Faerie Girl a bit of a thought.
She was just another toy, broken, discarded, and burned, like the others before her.
the music played,
in an unbalanced way.
teenager spins her around,
as if she were sixteen years old.
so many moons, have danced since then.
the room blurs with wedding guests.
she imagines them all watching,
her formal dress picking up speed.
caught in a whirlwind, she falls -
fearful and embarrassed.
her knight, who shines with armor
~ only one she trusts ~
straddles over her,
as if he has a cape that covers her,
blocking out the sunlight.
no one stares, as she seeks those knowing pupils.
his strong masculine hands pull her to her feet,
his warm romantic arms ~ shield her ~ from harm.
he’s been her date for more than fifty years.
she trusts his love, her fate in her spouse's embrace.
Kim Rodrigues ©2017
it was an accident
he was not a violent man
her death was her own fault
she goaded him
he dropped her body into the hole