Writings of a Phobophobe.
He said I’m cold,
But he made a mistake.
It’s a blow,
The things said were fake.
It has taken a toll,
The past has been raked.
I don’t know,
How long it’s going to take.
But don’t let that doubt grow,
For goodness sake.
I’m not cold,
And I’ve no hate.
Please let him know,
Before decisions are made.
‘Cause when I go
Through the exit gate,
It’ll be three hours or so,
To the relationship’s wake.
I’m in pain,
I’m in torment.
I hate that you took my freedom,
With one comment.
She will decide one fine day,
“No longer your slave,” she’ll say.
She will win wars of the heart,
And Trojan horses of illusion.
She will be Royal to one,
Worthy of being her King.
Small portrait it is,
Takes me a week.
It pains my wrist,
To finish a tweak.
She kept my brushes,
Obsessed with organisation.
Armed with kindness,
And the best intentions.
But artists hate it,
When their tools are kept,
It is symbolic,
Their inspiration trapped in a shed.
killgwen 