My past, a loom of hell,
Bottled range of emotions in a shell,
Every gesture I made toward love repels,
You became the muse of my downfall, I fell.
Love is a stride or strip, she tells.
You were once a rejected babe
And you want me to be your only babe
Still, you yell beneath another man's ping,
While I write you a song to sing
When you scream another man's name as he dings.
My past won't let me breathe,
You had me in a chokehold,
I grew in self-loathe,
I resist the urge to uphold.
Love is like a mantle that dismantles.
My past is like a grain of salt,
Little of it is what has become the sweetness of life,
A truckload of it is an assault to my halt,
and results in a life of no gains, but strife,
My past is like a vault of insults.
If history hasn't taught you anything,
It has taught me to look back for nothing
When the future is in view,
If history has been kind to me in review,
What would have been the lesson to learn,
What would have been my concern,
To discern between love and nutting
What would have been of me and you,
If history has taught you nothing,
It has taught me a lot about you.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
A most pertinent question. Skilfully presented.
Thanks Distinguished...