guest post - Cymbaline

So when Freedom asked (begged) me to write something for the blog, many thoughts went through my head. I was flattered/moved/touched.....Ok that's a lie, just one really.  How can i write something which is "in line" with her own hauntingly sad work?

 

The only way to make that happen, of course, would be to get inside her head.  So i took a deep breath, and a plunge, and in I went.....

 

Jesus Christ it's dark in here?  How does she see anything among all this bloody darkness?

 

Ok here I am, in the belly of the beast - in a world where magical words come out, and magical artworks.  Painful words, yes.  Sadness, sure.  But beauty too,  Am I up to the task?  Let's see:

 

Pain - By Cymbaline, Pretending to be freedom

 

Pain

It hurts

So bad

 

 

Everywhere

a sea

of pain

Ouch

 

Band aids

don't work

for this shit.

 

 

But it isn't all sad poems.  There are tales of pain as well.

 

Here's mine:

 

I see him, walking down the street.  he looks so freaking happy.  how can he look so happy after what he's done to me?  Walking there, with his freaking caramel latte, yet  trim as a baseball field's lawn.  Perfectly groomed.  How dare he?

 

So careless, like i wasn't even there.  Taking whatever he wants, not worrying about the consequences.  The destruction left in his wake.  Like a tornado.

 

A look back?  Don't make me laugh.  I am already forgotten to him.  Just a minuscule blip on his radar.  A flash and then gone.  I am nothing to him, who did so much damage to me.

 

Drink your latte asshole.  Don't choke on it.  I am a permanent stain on your karma.  You will never recover...

 

Never recover from what you did to me....

 

Man who took my parking spot.

 

*******Freedom here (aka Robyn aka a million other names....)

 

Dear Cymbaline (aka whatever your name is)-

 

Can I just say this post is brilliant! Oh and I did not beg. I was really asking for motivation and a boost to write my own piece. The one that is itching to be written. The one that is stuck in my head but refuses to be typed.

 

Dark. Haunting. Those are intense words. But I guess I'm an intense person. Maybe you are just jealous.

 

No, in all seriousness. You got me. You pinned me in a nutshell. Tied me in a little bow.

 

The guy you were talking about seemed oddly familiar. Now I can write about him and tear him to shreds.

 

Thank you. R