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


Got more to say to the Optimist?

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s