Not For The Weak
She bores easily within the ordinary
Love? She laughs in the face of a half-hearted love, a one-sided attempt,
Shrugs her shoulders at a love that’s subtle, insecure and full of secrets,
The kind where tiptoes are a necessity to wander its hallways,
And unexpressed thoughts always turn into regrets.
******
She’s waiting for the one coming for her with all guns blazing, knuckles bloodied and ready to start wars,
The brave instigator whose not scared to reach in and pull her heart from the burning ashes,
Where it has been left to smoulder in its own burial ground,
She’s waiting for the one who comes courageously or not at all, unwary of any backlashes.
******
She holds out for passion and lightning that strikes hot and heavy,
A storm of torrential rain encasing two souls,
Each day a testament to the war gods, two lovers riding the waves,
With neither lover experienced within the timidity and ordinary controls.
******
She leaves herself on those days that she awakens weak and broken,
No compassion left etched on that blackened heart,
So, for those that think she can be tamed and harnessed,
She’ll whip your arse from finish to start.
******
She longs for the safety and security of a partner in crime,
Knowing his sordid secrets and he knows hers; forever entwined,
Locked into a soul contract with the devil himself,
Taking them both to heights incredibly sublime.
******
She wants everything: the passion, the darkness, the sacrificial lamb,
Roll in your suitcase full of knives and swords, bring those bad boys out to play,
Destructor of perfect rainbows and fluffy sunsets,
The lock-pick king of guarded walls, padlocked doors and heart-armoured gateways.
******
She welcomes the tearing of old scar tissue, calloused and roughened by decades of pain,
Where many foretell her touch, her passion, her wanton desire, is too much for the soft-hearted,
Why? Because she loves hard, deeply and irrevocably, or not at all,
So, test your ability! Are you sure you have what it takes to stoke her fire?
About the Creator
Colleen Millsteed
My first love is poetry — it’s like a desperate need to write, to free up space in my mind, to escape the constant noise in my head. Most of the time the poems write themselves — I’m just the conduit holding the metaphorical pen.
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