Confessions of a Writer .9 (On broken Vows)

You  say  I  gave  no  chances,

no  fair  warnings,

I  did  the final  dance.

My  full time  job  was  mending

I  spent  9  years  pretending,

that  there  was  real  romance.

Romance?  What  is  this?

The  antonym  of  hate…

It  started  at  the  Havana,

and  ended  at  a  Denny’s  date.

My  heart  is  sore,

wounds  fester…full  of  puss,

it  can  hardly  beat  any  longer,  for  me  to  keep  up  a  fuss.

Every  part  of  me  was  yours…

my  light

and  my  dark.

Your  Momma  raised  you  to  bite  and  to  bark.

To  her  demise,

she  prepared  you  to  be  euthanized.

How  was  I  to  know,  that  you’d  take  every day  for  granted…

act  like  you  didn’t  have  to  work,

to  keep  this  love  root  planted?

A  flower  will  whither  if  left  without  water,

and  a  heart  grows  cold  when  its  cover  is  a  squanderer.

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