Poets logo

She’s Made Up Of Your Yesterdays

Guard her with your life

By Colleen Millsteed Published 4 years ago • 1 min read
Image courtesy of Pixabay

She is an accumulation of all your yesterdays,

Her battles become the strength pounding through your veins,

Rivers of audacity, flouncing throughout your bones,

Because she fought hard and broke the tormenter’s chains.

***

You have her to thank for the position you now hold,

Your place in the grand scheme of things,

All due to the pain of her sacrifice,

Her stubbornness, her refusal, her thickened skin.

***

She is your past, present and future,

Without her you’ll have no tomorrows,

Guard her with your life,

As she takes care of all your sorrows.

***

Walk with her through the gardens of your consciousness,

Listen carefully to her sage advice,

Take her at her word, she’ll not lead you astray,

Detour from her thoughtfulness and it’s demons you’ll entice.

***

Brave her brutal honesty,

Suffer longingly through her tears,

Tether yourself to her heartbeat,

She’ll get you to the heavens of future years.

***

Weather her insecurities,

Bolster her self esteem,

Walk a mile or two in her shoes,

As she has the wickedness of your foremost dreams.

***

Surrender up your nightmares,

Your pain, your torment and your screams,

Trust she’ll wander the darkened corridors,

Puncturing your worries, your hatred, your extremes.

***

She is a combination of your yesterdays,

Your forgotten pillars of the test,

There are no secrets, nor should you try,

She’s the very lover you know best!

If you liked my writing, please click on the small heart underneath, near my name. Or send me a tip and let me know you enjoyed it.

****

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.

Originally posted on Medium

surreal poetry

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.

Enjoyed the story? Support the Creator.

Subscribe for free to receive all their stories in your feed. You could also become a paid subscriber, letting them know you appreciate their work.

Subscribe For Free

Reader insights

Comments

There are no comments for this story

Be the first to respond and start the conversation.

Sign in to comment
    Written by Colleen Millsteed