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Broken Pieces of Me [Revised]

by Rommel Cruz

How long will I let you mold me?
Poured in your cast of calloused cares
Of what is right, perfect and acceptable.
Am I not beautiful?
You clump and chuck me away
Even before the furnace’s loving fires
Can congeal me in your earthly desires.

How long will I let you paint me?
Brushed and bruised in your misguided ideals
Splattered with self-pity and deceit.
Will I ever be enough?
You rip my bleeding canvass
As easily as you exhale “failure”
From your faultless cigarette.

How long will I remain?
Broken in my trampled dreams
Ripped in my writhing, tortured soul
Shattered

By my own jagged words.

01/17/2004

Posted on 01/17/2004
Copyright © 2019 Rommel Cruz

Member Comments on this Poem
Posted by Mary Ellen Smith on 01/17/04 at 03:34 PM

I like that "loving fires" it is true that it is the fire that refines...good one!

Posted by David R Spellman on 01/18/04 at 02:47 PM

I like this alot Rommel. The use of other artistic forms is excellent, with the line "Poured in your cast of calloused cares" being my favorite. The ending is so perfect too. Excellent job!

Posted by Matt Forget on 01/19/04 at 12:28 AM

Excellent job bud! The feeling and sensation put into this piece is putting you into the picture of it all. I really like this piece a lot. Keep up the great work!

Posted by Jeanne Marie Hoffman on 01/30/04 at 12:16 AM

A very emotional poem -- and the cause being you wasn't expected, I like it

Posted by Cole Miller on 02/03/04 at 03:30 AM

i agree with Jeanne, the end definately threw me off guard. but yes, this is quite the piece, i did not get to see it in its other stages, but i wish i had.

Posted by Thomas K. Hunt on 07/21/04 at 11:40 PM

excellent piece...How long is the question that only you can answer.....

Posted by Philip F De Pinto on 03/18/15 at 01:48 PM

ultimately we are all subject matter to pose for however long it takes to capture our features or rather the features the one painting the picture had in mind for us. I think, those of us who do offer ourselves to sit for the artist have no control, nor should we have control over the way those features turn out. ours is not to reason why, ours is but to sit and sigh.

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