Romantic Masochist
Be warned, this is the only piece of poetry I have ever written and it probably breaks every rule in the book (I wouldn't know meter and rhyme from matchboxes and radishes). Anyhow, it's a bit of angst so if you were in a good mood before you started reading it I do apologise ; )
To my Love,
I know it will burn me to come near you and yet I drift irresistibly near until I scorch and welt in the pleasure-drenched agony of an addict.
Pain and pleasure have become so intertwined for me that I can’t turn back.
So now, in love at least, I’m a masochist.
I want to burn.
I want to brush up against it and feel the flames licking at my heart – I’m so close but I can’t turn away.
Smoke doesn’t scare me.
I think I see through your pall anyhow.
I see you there behind all your iron bars, sternly committed to your vows of long ago.
You can’t help your condition.
It’s only that one pale figure you see, feel and breathe.
All else is paper and cardboard, not flesh and feeling.
Our moments together are a passing remedy, a feigned attempt at restarting - a cheap knock-off with fraying seams.
Well, I see you clearly now, you are somewhat less of a mystery than you were,
And I think I love you more – out of empathy more than tolerance.
You would scoff at all that I say here.
But maybe you will stop and stare when I tell you (or even believe me?), when I say that risqué encounters of the reckless heart only remind me of how I always longed for the mediocre encounters of the everyday kind…beside you.
I think you should destroy this before you consider the weight of my words.
For we both know you can never accept a union under any circumstances other than those already bound and broken.
Eternal optimism is the hallmark of love though and so I continue to beg silently, for the stars to rearrange themselves and by so doing reshape our wearisome fates into something more akin to what should be.
And I will try to forget how many times I’ve sought to bind you to my will, by heart and by flesh.
I would be a tramp for you (and no-one else).
I would give up my honor, my ambition, my friends, my all - you held it all to ransom yet you refused to accept the prize!
So I guess it’s another outpouring of emotion gone to waste. More ridiculous proclamations cheapened by the silence that rings after them.
Like a drummer in an empty street so my heart parades through each day longing for someone to hear its rhythm.
That beat grows louder and evermore steady along with the realisation that I cannot live without hope of it being heard.
Am I so beneath your consideration?
Am I merely a romantic masochist bent on bleeding my own heart and yours too until our pain consumes the agony of some other, greater loneliness?
Or is my love a holy, sacred flame that flickers patiently in a pilgrim’s vigil for heart and mind’s fulfillment?
I miss your thoughtfulness, I miss your kindness, I miss your edifying soul.
Would you dare be with me again?
That might be dangerous.
I might tear you down in my attempt to appear self-sufficient.
Yes, I feel convicted.
I am my own victim more than yours.
I am a romantic masochist.
Break me again my love, I need you to crush me completely this time.
No fairy floss fingers this time.
Do it properly.
Break me into two pieces because how can I walk away when part of me is part of you?
Don’t leave me limping and crying like a wounded animal who can never recover.
I’m no good to anyone now.
All I crave is pain - it is the only thing you let me have from you.
I crave its reassuring stabs, tearing at me from the inside.
For if you remove those rabid claws then I know I will feel nothing at all.
Yes, I am a romantic masochist but then maybe you were too.
Maybe you were the first.
And like a vampire you transmitted it to me with the bite of your affection.
Kiss me, thrill me, kill me (Isn’t that how the song goes?/Isn’t that how love goes?)
I won’t expect you to reply.
A romantic masochist wouldn’t do that.
And a romantic masochist wouldn’t want you to either.
We fear nothing except the belief that we have found someone who won’t hurt us.
What a sick joke!
You suffer it with such cool detachment I suspect I am the only one who has diagnosed your condition (after all, it takes one to know one).
Only you won’t ever look for the cure, will you?
Your Romantic Masochist.
To my Love,
I know it will burn me to come near you and yet I drift irresistibly near until I scorch and welt in the pleasure-drenched agony of an addict.
Pain and pleasure have become so intertwined for me that I can’t turn back.
So now, in love at least, I’m a masochist.
I want to burn.
I want to brush up against it and feel the flames licking at my heart – I’m so close but I can’t turn away.
Smoke doesn’t scare me.
I think I see through your pall anyhow.
I see you there behind all your iron bars, sternly committed to your vows of long ago.
You can’t help your condition.
It’s only that one pale figure you see, feel and breathe.
All else is paper and cardboard, not flesh and feeling.
Our moments together are a passing remedy, a feigned attempt at restarting - a cheap knock-off with fraying seams.
Well, I see you clearly now, you are somewhat less of a mystery than you were,
And I think I love you more – out of empathy more than tolerance.
You would scoff at all that I say here.
But maybe you will stop and stare when I tell you (or even believe me?), when I say that risqué encounters of the reckless heart only remind me of how I always longed for the mediocre encounters of the everyday kind…beside you.
I think you should destroy this before you consider the weight of my words.
For we both know you can never accept a union under any circumstances other than those already bound and broken.
Eternal optimism is the hallmark of love though and so I continue to beg silently, for the stars to rearrange themselves and by so doing reshape our wearisome fates into something more akin to what should be.
And I will try to forget how many times I’ve sought to bind you to my will, by heart and by flesh.
I would be a tramp for you (and no-one else).
I would give up my honor, my ambition, my friends, my all - you held it all to ransom yet you refused to accept the prize!
So I guess it’s another outpouring of emotion gone to waste. More ridiculous proclamations cheapened by the silence that rings after them.
Like a drummer in an empty street so my heart parades through each day longing for someone to hear its rhythm.
That beat grows louder and evermore steady along with the realisation that I cannot live without hope of it being heard.
Am I so beneath your consideration?
Am I merely a romantic masochist bent on bleeding my own heart and yours too until our pain consumes the agony of some other, greater loneliness?
Or is my love a holy, sacred flame that flickers patiently in a pilgrim’s vigil for heart and mind’s fulfillment?
I miss your thoughtfulness, I miss your kindness, I miss your edifying soul.
Would you dare be with me again?
That might be dangerous.
I might tear you down in my attempt to appear self-sufficient.
Yes, I feel convicted.
I am my own victim more than yours.
I am a romantic masochist.
Break me again my love, I need you to crush me completely this time.
No fairy floss fingers this time.
Do it properly.
Break me into two pieces because how can I walk away when part of me is part of you?
Don’t leave me limping and crying like a wounded animal who can never recover.
I’m no good to anyone now.
All I crave is pain - it is the only thing you let me have from you.
I crave its reassuring stabs, tearing at me from the inside.
For if you remove those rabid claws then I know I will feel nothing at all.
Yes, I am a romantic masochist but then maybe you were too.
Maybe you were the first.
And like a vampire you transmitted it to me with the bite of your affection.
Kiss me, thrill me, kill me (Isn’t that how the song goes?/Isn’t that how love goes?)
I won’t expect you to reply.
A romantic masochist wouldn’t do that.
And a romantic masochist wouldn’t want you to either.
We fear nothing except the belief that we have found someone who won’t hurt us.
What a sick joke!
You suffer it with such cool detachment I suspect I am the only one who has diagnosed your condition (after all, it takes one to know one).
Only you won’t ever look for the cure, will you?
Your Romantic Masochist.
Who needs rules, meter and rhyme when you can write with this much passion ...
I love the title ... (and the work itself) ...
And, far from taking me from a good mood to a bad one, this sort of writing puts me in a better mood ...
I love it ... It's brilliant ...
I term this type of writing 'Inspirational' ...
David ...
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... there are too many lines in this that resonate, to be able to highlight just one or two ... I have walked many of them with you during my lifetime ... by your side... but I particularly liked:
And I think I love you more – out of empathy more than tolerance..
I think we have all been torn away and been rebound, have pushed and passed it by, ignored it and enjoyed it too ... all of these ... eventually leading me, personally to detachment of outcomes as the best place in life.
I adored this poem and have to agree, that when words are written on a page with this much meaning and depth, rhyming poetry cannot hold a flame to it ... beautiful.
.. inspirational indeed!
Lilla ...