She awoke to a new day, smiling at the sun shining down upon her,
And gave thanks to a recent near miss,
She thought she wanted the past to be relived, oh how she was wrong,
Discovering her mistake before that first fatal kiss.
Where once there was love given innocently and free,
Only to discover that the truth was hidden behind a veil,
The universe blessed her heart when it begged her to run,
From a horrid relationship destined to fail.
Where she was left to wonder all through the upcoming decades,
Whether those decisions she’d made were wrong or right,
She recently discovered she luckily dodged a bullet,
Escaping from what could have been a horrific plight.
He made her open her eyes to the sordid truth,
As he recently ripped the veil from her mind,
Showing his true colours, his bitterness and cruelty,
Making her well aware she’d hate what she’d find.
In his old age he has soured into a lost and lonely man,
Left with nothing but his great ego and full blown arrogance,
Nastiness his go to while begging for attention,
Ensuring that he no longer has the slightest chance.
Anyone who once loved him has now slipped quietly from his grip,
His family, his friends and his now ex wife,
They’ve all moved on to much greener pastures,
Until sadly he’s left with a solitary life.
The more she learned from him, the more she thanked her lucky stars,
Knowing she walked away at the opportune time,
The past should be left behind to eat her dust,
Because he may be a lost cause, but she’s just hitting her prime.
Please click the link below my name to read more of my work. I would also like to thank you for taking the time to read this today and for all your support.
If you enjoy this piece, you may enjoy this one too.
Please visit my website if you'd like more information on my newly published book, Battle Angel : The Ultimate She Warrior.
Originally published on Medium
About the Creator
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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