mobbleberry:

She is irresistible bait,
for they all flock to her -
She just cannot wait.
To have them 
hook, line and sinker.
She will play with them
as they drop like flies all around.
She’ll squish them between heels and ground.
Pulverise, with her index finger and thumb.
Her expression, cold and numb.
She is the perfect catch,
but no ones ideal match.
None will go the extra mile,
they always disappear
in the autumn of her smile. 
They fulfil her fears of doubt,
don’t lift a finger to fight
just bail on out.
Abandon the sinking ship that she is,
and find a ‘sensible’ little Miss, 
to truly love and kiss.
All she can do as fish bait,
is wait…

mobbleberry:

The Winner goes home - 
empty handed. 
With a smile on her face, 
as if she’d planned it. 
In this Checkmate reality
she made all the right moves. 
She got your Bishop under her thumb
he sainted her
and she became an angel. 

.

Check. 

. 

She convinced your new Queen
that her crown didn’t suit her. 

.

Check. 

.

She turned all your little Minions and Pawns
against you
leaving you defenceless. 

.

Check. 

.

And your beloved Knights?
She slept with them. 
So you could never trust them again. 

. 

Checkmate. 

. 

She is the Victor Supreme
For she stole your every dream. 
She is the Winner. 
The Winner that goes home - 
empty handed. 
Pretending her actions were noble and candid. 
But really, who would ever hold the hand, 
of such a heartless Witch? 
Cackling, endlessly over winning 
a stupid game of chess -
What a Bitch.
You’re the loser.
But at least you have your pride.
That silly little girl,
will only ever be snide.  

mobbleberry:

You have one foot stuck, 
firmly in the past. 
The other rooted in the future. 
You straddle the present, 
but never look it in the eye. 
Unfortunately, that’s where I am,
pinned between your knees. 
I am your present, yet I know
I am Untitled, Unknown and Unimaginable. 
To the one thing that matters - 
Your heart. 

She is irresistible bait,
for they all flock to her -
She just cannot wait.
To have them 
hook, line and sinker.
She will play with them
as they drop like flies all around.
She’ll squish them between heels and ground.
Pulverise, with her index finger and thumb.
Her expression, cold and numb.
She is the perfect catch,
but no ones ideal match.
None will go the extra mile,
they always disappear
in the autumn of her smile. 
They fulfil her fears of doubt,
don’t lift a finger to fight
just bail on out.
Abandon the sinking ship that she is,
and find a ‘sensible’ little Miss, 
to truly love and kiss.
All she can do as fish bait,
is wait…

mobbleberry:

The Winner goes home - 
empty handed. 
With a smile on her face, 
as if she’d planned it. 
In this Checkmate reality
she made all the right moves. 
She got your Bishop under her thumb
he sainted her
and she became an angel. 

.

Check. 

. 

She convinced your new Queen
that her crown didn’t suit her. 

.

Check. 

.

She turned all your little Minions and Pawns
against you
leaving you defenceless. 

.

Check. 

.

And your beloved Knights?
She slept with them. 
So you could never trust them again. 

. 

Checkmate. 

. 

She is the Victor Supreme
For she stole your every dream. 
She is the Winner. 
The Winner that goes home - 
empty handed. 
Pretending her actions were noble and candid. 
But really, who would ever hold the hand, 
of such a heartless Witch? 
Cackling, endlessly over winning 
a stupid game of chess -
What a Bitch.
You’re the loser.
But at least you have your pride.
That silly little girl,
will only ever be snide.  

mobbleberry:

If I close my eyes, I can’t quite see you. 

Your iris is a kaleidoscope, alternating between

green and blue.

Your image hasn’t revealed itself to me yet, 

our eager hands, like puzzle pieces,

have never met.

I leave it to my imagination,

heat rising up my neck, a thermometer fever.  

unable to conceal my elation. 

I fancy that your hands will smell of fresh-cut grass. 

That you will understand that my heart is closer to glass. 

Crystal clear, for it will be transparent to you alone. 

It is already yours entirely, no need for a mortgage, 

payment scheme or loan.

You will be my home and place of rest,

to have you in my life, I will be truly blessed.  

“In a couple of weeks, 

you’ll forget that I even existed.”

Not a crystal ball

or a tarot card could have

beaten the accuracy of this prophesy. 

It was set in stone

the moment it materialised,

- in my mouth: 

“In a couple of weeks, 

you’ll forget that I even existed.”

My Gypsy Grandmother, said it would be thus. 

There was no need for me

to squirrel away your tea cup. 

So I could read those illuminating leaves. 

Nor was there a reason, 

for me to grasp your hand and trace

your life-line, seeking some scrap 

of me on your palm. 

“In a couple of weeks, 

you’ll forget that I even existed.” 

It was I, who prophesied

our downfall.

But who was it,

who failed to reach out and call?   

The Winner goes home - 
empty handed. 
With a smile on her face, 
as if she’d planned it. 
In this Checkmate reality
she made all the right moves. 
She got your Bishop under her thumb
he sainted her
and she became an angel. 

.

Check. 

. 

She convinced your new Queen
that her crown didn’t suit her. 

.

Check. 

.

She turned all your little Minions and Pawns
against you
leaving you defenceless. 

.

Check. 

.

And your beloved Knights?
She slept with them. 
So you could never trust them again. 

. 

Checkmate. 

. 

She is the Victor Supreme
For she stole your every dream. 
She is the Winner. 
The Winner that goes home - 
empty handed. 
Pretending her actions were noble and candid. 
But really, who would ever hold the hand, 
of such a heartless Witch? 
Cackling, endlessly over winning 
a stupid game of chess -
What a Bitch.
You’re the loser.
But at least you have your pride.
That silly little girl,
will only ever be snide.  

I think subtitles are required, 

so I can better understand what inspired, 

the words of this conversation: 

Him: I don’t know what I feel. 

      [I’m confused]

Her: That’s alright, I understand.

      [I don’t understand. Shouldn’t it be obvious?] 

Him: It’s not that I don’t still like you…

      [I just don’t like you enough]

Her: Really, it’s okay. We can still be friends. 

     [I hate you, right now, I hate your guts.] 

Him: Yeah, I think that’s for the best. 

     [Fuck, I’m losing her…please don’t look at me like that.]

Her: I’ll leave you alone now…

    [Why don’t you stop me…why don’t you take it all back?]

EXIT

.

.

Behind all the clichés, and polite talk,

He watches as she walks.

If we had subtitles, and discarded with our pride, 

if we hadn’t looked each other in the eye, and lied.

Neither of us would have cried. 

Your hope feels like a strangers hand. 

Slipping away from me,

as these fragile seconds

collapse into past. 

With no fingertips to grasp, 

we will never last.

Lost, among these hourglass sands.

You die a little,

each time I look away.

As I walk away,

Standing idle,

with no promises to stay.

.

.

.

I’m sorry.

My hourglass honour,

is no honour at all.

It just slips and falls

with the tides of time.

Each sand-grain-second, 

represents me caring 

.

.

.

Less

.

.

.

and

.

.

.

less.

.

.

.

What a heartless beast I am.  

mobbleberry:

I knew it was truly over, 

when I woke up,

and you weren’t the first thing

to bulldoze my brain.

When the hurt and the ‘never ending’ pain,

the jealously and judgement, 

was no longer a drain.

A single night,

void of turbulent tossing and turning,

upon a sea of sadness.

Just a quiet numb,

resonating to an electronic

alarm clock hum.

The pillars of worry and anger,

collapsing into a rubble heap. 

Me, knowing that only memories, 

pictures and words I could keep.

When I knew it was truly over…

Was the moment I realised, we are ruins.

Nothing but shell.

I can only be re-built by someone new.  

When he will arrive?

Only time will tell.

I hope he’s someone armed

with a sturdy hammer,

and a sturdier heart.

Beckoning a bright new beginning, that allusive ‘fresh start’.

.

.

I can’t wait to meet you.     

He put her there, 

up on that lofty pedestal. 

“She belongs to myth’s and fairy tales“ 

He kept telling himself.   

Meanwhile, all alone up there 

she sat convinced that he had left her on the shelf. 

Hurling her shoes at him to get some attention, 

curled up with the clouds

desperate for affection.

She didn’t want to be worshipped, 

or be a deity of his pride. 

It’s a sad little tale, 

of a love that will only ever fail.

For he adored her, 

and she mistook it for loathing.