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  • Love

    Why

                 You ask me why I want you here. You ask me why I stay.
                  My heart beats fast. Its life I fear, and I wait...for truth to
                 come my way.
               You speak to me of loyalty and a heart forever true. Yet,
                 I see strangers faces all around me and I wonder which 1
                 was loving you.
                 You talk to me of future dreams and plans to move away.
                 Then, I look into your phonebook of friends from now and
                 yesterday.I wonder which parts you say are true, and which
                 ones are merely schemes.
                  The days I long for, so long past when my head was clear
                  and my heart beat fast. I search for just a windowpane of that
                 surging trust I felt.And tears flow down, burning in all the i
                 insecurities I felt.
                 I cringe now from the morning sun. Into shadows..corners   I will run.
                 The shame I feel from strangers, like a slap across my face
                 and I ask God to take me to a softer, safer place.
                 Where lies and games no longer live and false feelings
                  always die.
                  A place where I no longer have to hang my head and cry.
                   For all the things youve done to me. For all my unmet needs.
                  I can trust no other kinships...like animals on me they feed.
                   As for the pain youve given me. For all the wrongs
                  that have been done.The emptiness and longings could never
                 measure close, to the pain I feel without you and living
                 with my ghosts.
                  You ask me why I want you here. You ask me why I stay.
                  I stay because I love you and I no longer know another way.












                

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    Poetry is not an expression of the party line. It's that time of night, lying in bed, thinking what you really think, making the private world public, that's what the poet does.

    Allen Ginsberg (1926-1997) U.S. poet.

    Broom’s Poems (1)

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