My Maker Liveth

Poem By john chizoba vincent

I have a wooden box
Under my bed.
It’s hand crafted and carved
And inlaid with gold
And full to the brim
With the insults
You brought me
Over the years.

I take them out occasionally
And try them on for size.
They don’t fit of course,
They never did.
Either hanging loose
Over my deceptively slight frame.
Or ridiculously small,
Laughable in their tightness.

Most are cheap, mass produced,
Run of the mill rags,
The sort you see in any
Bad relationship.
Others are Haute couture:
Conceived, designed, constructed,
Exclusively for me
But still not right:

Sometimes,
Inexplicably,
I convince myself
They are a perfect fit.
Only time spent gazing
Into the mirror of honesty
Brings me back to the truth,
It is merely in your distorted vision
That the scorn and ridicule suit me.

One day soon
I will burn my box
And it’s precious contents.
Not today, not tomorrow
And probably not next week
But soon.
Soon
I will toss it all
Into the fiery Gehenna
Along with
My memories
Of you.

Comments about My Maker Liveth

Toss it now! ! ! ! It does not have any place in your present or your future- it didn't have an honest place in your past.
Sallie, Why do I find this very very very sad. Sid xx
really deep.you have a natural ability
A wonderful composition, lovely.10+
brilliant piece with a fine creative acument


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