Damaged Goods
The scratching of his pencil wanes
across
the surface of my skin.
My
skin, so weathered, old and stained;
abuse
administered by him.
I did
not think it would be so
when I
was young and youthful page,
and
with desire did I glow
to
hold the passion of his rage.
Or be
the keeper of his thoughts,
that
later into books unfurl.
Or be
the note on which he jots
his
feelings for beloved girl.
Oh,
how I waited for that day
when
my existence he would find.
And he
would spill, without delay,
on me,
the contents of his mind.
For I
was fresh and clean and crisp,
When
on his desk I first appeared.
And
what writer could resist
to
imprint on a sheet so clear?
So
free of any smudge or line,
or any
trace of ugly past.
So
open to whatever grime
with
which he chooses to harass.
And
when he found me lying there
just
waiting for his pencil's touch,
a
sweet connection we did share,
when
first it did, but not for much.
When
first he wrote across my skin
I
thought my life would be complete.
His
words were feverous but grim.
I held
the secret to his heat.
The
marks he with his pencil made
were
crisp and bold as page itself.
And so
much meaning they conveyed,
as
made me think that I would melt.
But
then the tragedy occurred,
that
brought my bliss to bitter end.
The
phone did ring, and so he stirred,
and
left me for myself to fend.
For
days and night I'm quivering,
anticipating
his return,
when
he returns to outpouring
those
words of his for which I yearn.
But
when he comes, phone in his hand
his
glance at me is swift and sore,
and
with dismay I realize that
I'm
not the page I was before.
I am
not clean, I am not fresh,
and
neither are the thoughts I hold.
They
are a tangled, ugly mesh
of
feelings he cares not to mold.
Yet on
his desk I do remain,
neglected,
but not thrown away.
Worth
naught except to catch the stains
of his
spilled coffee and ash tray.
He
pays no heed that my full self
he's
only partially explored.
No
need for that, in his great wealth,
of
papers stacked from roof to floor.
All
waiting, hoping, to be picked
if
only for a little bit.
Not
thinking that they will be kicked,
out
from beneath his pencil's wit.
Gracelelessy,
to be used like this,
ignored,
unfinished, incomplete.
With
little chance of reaching bliss-
of
being useful, worthy sheet.
And so
from here I do reflect
on
life that has gone by in vain,
and
all the fresh sheets that, I bet,
will, or
have, gone through the same.