Just because it rhymes, dont make it poetry

I have written some really, REALLY bad and overly dramatic poetry over the last 25 years. But I kept this drippy tripe because, well, it kind of saved me. It was therapeutic to write about teenage angst, evolving ideas about love, and a marriage that sucked at the heels of my soul like a killer riptide.

While unpacking boxes I found two pieces about Sam, the first husband. They were written 10 years apart and I think there is a worthy comparison here - just not sure what it is.

1995
I gave. I gave. I gave it all.
You wanted short. I was too tall.
I'd break my legs to be that small,
then would you be happy?

A smile, a hug or laugh or two
would have been the greatest gift from you.
Funny how my heart was true
but not content or happy.



2006
My countenance was a reed
waving, bending, from storms recovering.
Then unhappy 'he' pulled me down
with heavy words and blows to my sinuous fiber.
Each day I could stretch a little.
And each day a little less, and less,
until my head drooped, back bent forward,
low to the earth where his feet trod.

What was motion? And freedom?
With no air to stir me I could not remember.
Root rot choked my last autonomous bits.

Then from the nadir I noticed the wind,
and riding with it the scent of peppery pine oils.
Whisperings in trees spoke urgently to me,
lowly, inconsequential me! and I listened,
awakened to the knowledge of my very own self.
I demanded my body rise above the choke-hold
and ascend to the bliss of forgotten powers.

I am burden-less. My roots wiggle without his permission
and I wave, and I bend when I want to.
I remember how glorious it is to be just me.


See? It's all drivel. But damn it felt good afterwards.