Fickle, a new poem.

There’s something about a glass of wine (or a bottle) along with a sweaty workout that gets the blood flowing. And blood flowing leads to writing, writing, writing.

————————

You were the lie I told myself,
The truth I made myself believe.
My careless mind let down its guard
To a heart that would deceive.

For a heart’s a fickle creature,
It wants what it knows ain’t best,
It thinks it can work through anything,
This life is just a test.

You were the lie I told myself,
The person who fit me like a glove,
But if we fit so perfect,
Why’d we have to work so hard for love?

My heart’s a dirty whore,
It spread its legs for you.
It knew your reputation,
And yet hoped your words were true.

You were the lie I told myself,
The greatest deception from within!
For I thought I deserved this happiness,
I thought it justified the sin.

My mind is cleaning house,
The destruction, the heart’s remnant.
Perhaps one day it can be restored.
Perhaps, far off, a new tenant.

You were the lie I told myself,
But a greater lie came ahead:
I believed I had value, gifts, perhaps beauty!
Alas, t’was an empty shell instead.

———————–

Thank you for reading,

Victoria Elizabeth

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