I bleed ink
writing about you.
I describe
your laugh
your eyes
the way you
tuck your hair
behind your ear.
You will and
have already been
quoted
described
and yes,
cried over
baptized
in tears and ink
hundreds of times.
Each poem
begins and ends
with you
my muse.
About the Creator
ᔕᗩᗰ ᕼᗩᖇTY
Sam Harty is a poet of raw truth and quiet rebellion. Author of Lost Love Volumes I & II and The Lost Little Series, her work confronts heartbreak, trauma, and survival with fierce honesty and lyrical depth. Where to find me
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Excellent work. Looking forward to reading more!
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Heartfelt and relatable
The story invoked strong personal emotions
Foot Bindings
I asked my grandmother how she knew she'd fallen in love. I am not sure I ever did love him, she said. This was before I met my husband. I was naive, a naked spring, a raw nerve of a thing. That cannot ever be me, I knew. Sadness swept in gently like a Moscow thaw. It is no simple thing, looking into a woman's vast soul and seeing its foot bindings. Now, in Italy divorced with my skin singed off, when I say I don't love him mean: I have succeeded at feeling nothing most days and it mostly works. Do you want the comfort of Nothing? Do you want Nothing, too? Be warned: you'll never be free, even when you are nothing. Here is what doesn't work: Accepting the stages of grief. Talking about it. Sitting with the feeling. Missing him—no, the person you were when you believed in death do us part. Writing poetry. That, too. When I say I don't love him I mean: I feel capsized in an endless, starved tide. What sometimes works: selective memory. You must forget ripe tomatoes and his beard and feeling perfectly sheltered in a big blue world. Forget coffee in bed, laughter watching TV, blowing out the candles on the birthday cake and the quiet all-encompassing knowledge that you are chosen. Remember only how love turned to a banal everyday survival act, a trapeze act unsure whether he will catch you, how the warmth stagnated and became sour, remember the foot bindings and remember the resentment boiling in your veins as you stick it out for the kids. Six-hour Netflix binges help, too. A man's fingers tracing your spine. Frozen pizza at 2 a.m. Random trips to the museum just to stand near things that last a while. The realization that crying won’t change anything. Seeing that life is just a dream, and refusing to participate in your own suffering. Bite your fist. Walk on eggshells around joy. When I say I don't love him, I mean he didn’t break my heart, he just stopped touching it and it forgot how to beat right.
By Ella Bogdanovaabout 17 hours ago in Poets
The Lesions of Devotion
Every day I set myself down on the freshly cut lawn and strip myself bare. I take my guitar and finger the frets and pick at the strings, listening for dissonance. My life is dissonance. I twist the tuning pegs until each string sounds bright. Then I kneel, calves pointing behind me, kneecaps facing forward. All exposed to the breeze. I close my eyes and play the melody.
By Paul Stewart2 days ago in Fiction
Comments (11)
A lovely poem about love. Nicely done!!!
Your words capture the essence of deep admiration and love perfectly.
Love it, love it, love it! The kind of testament only an author can make. ⚡💙⚡
Gorgeously-written!
You have such an incredible gift with words, weaving emotions and imagery together so beautifully that your poetry feels like an intimate, romantic dance of the soul.
This one flows so beautifully, Sam. You are truly a spectacular poet.
Because poetry ✍️♦️♦️♦️
Very romantic!
Aww such a sweet poem, with an emotional tone to it. Its good to have a muse tho.
oh so nice and sweet
When it comes to love we all need a muse. This is a lovely poem Sam. 😘