Mr. Africa Poetry Lounge!
Repressed
All things being equal, I don't think about you,
The gentle way you touched me,
The tender way you kissed me,
The subtle way you would caress me,
The meaningful way you would listen to me,
The passionate way you loved me...
No - I think not of these things.
They are safely bottled up, locked tight, harnessed, suppressed in the back of my mind,
As they should be...
You and me?
A far distant memory.
Refresh my memory again?
Oh yes, I do... I do remember...
Trying not to, as those memories begged to be repressed,
And I am failing them.
Wanting not another go at the pain of things past,
Or its subsequent lapses in judgment
Or constantly comparing the present with the past...
Here again we stand and in different points in life than before,
Unable to deny what feels like yesterday,
That was so long ago,
When repressed memory has escaped the bonds of its tightly locked box,
To subconsciously force into fruition the things that it wants,
To law of attract you right back to me...
So here we stand...
Yet again, engaged in mental contact,
Wanting so much more, but unable to transcend reality,
To get us back to the point where all that existed was you and me...
All that existed was you and I
No separation, no distance, no just thinking, no hurt, no numbness to loving each other...
It was free, all emotion, no fear, it just was...
And there was never a notion of love's pending doom...
Or the cloud that loomed over what we thought would be a bright future...
And though sometimes it's difficult to admit, we loved hard.
Harder than should have been allowed, but it was inescapable.
And to this day I still feel it,
In the pit of my soul,
In the fiber of my being,
In my chest, with my heart's every beat...
But all things being equal, I don't think about you,
The gentle way you touched me,
The tender way you kissed me,
The subtle way you would caress me,
The meaningful way you would listen to me,
The passionate way you loved me.
No - I think not of these things.
I dream them; they are as much a part of me as any other part of my body.
I walk in them daily...
I suppose that repression is not my gift.
Written by Emma Joan
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