Uploaded January 2014 | Updated September 2026, 2 weeks ago
This short poem is about honesty used as a shield, and self-awareness used as a weapon, when love devolves into battle.
In May of last year, Fred (conferencereport) asked for poems for a project called YouPoet, and I filmed the negative images here but found no words to go with it. Then, just before Christmas, Loreleila asked a simple question on Google+: Who.Are.You?
The bones of what follows came from that. Much love to both for their constant inspiration.
The music comes from the YouTuber, NoisesStrange:
youtube.com/user/NoisesStrange
Ambient Noises - Soundscape 1
youtube.com/watch?v=8ykNts_tGKQ
Wishing You Ill
You think you know what I am better than I know myself.
You think it will hurt me to hear what I am.. ..from you.
You think that much of yourself.
But sweetheart, you have a blindspot when it comes to me.
I am just an old hot water bottle filled with tea and self-pity. I am the sound of disappointment echoing in an empty can; the last stationary spin of the room before a drunkard's lights go dim.
I am an unfurled fiver flaked with powder; the bang of a gavel in open court. I am the row of X's on an unopened birthday card from the mother of a grown child, too busy.
I am that slow head hung walk back home from the bookies on payday. I'm a training wheel hanging loose on a missing child's bicycle, and I am far, far harder on myself that you could ever hope to be.
But I am also the owner of tomorrow morning's crooked half-smile, as I consider once more how lucky I am, to be rid of you.
I know what I am, but I dread what you are.
********
Love blooms in shadows as we conceal from our amours all those nasty cracks in our character that only a friend can ignore. We hide them in hopes of finding that we have found a lover as forgiving as a friend.
We rarely do, and when we don't we should count ourselves lucky if we can untangle ourselves with a little dignity left intact.
When it doesn't work out so cleanly as that then we sometimes see how close to each other love and hate can be, and that's closer and crueler than Reverend Harry Powell's fists.
This short poem is about honesty used as a shield, and self-awareness used as a weapon, when love devolves into battle.
In May of last year, Fred (conferencereport) asked for poems for a project called YouPoet, and I filmed the negative images here but found no words to go with it. Then, just before Christmas, Loreleila asked a simple question on Google+: Who.Are.You?
The bones of what follows came from that. Much love to both for their constant inspiration.
The music comes from the YouTuber, NoisesStrange:
youtube.com/user/NoisesStrange
Ambient Noises - Soundscape 1
youtube.com/watch?v=8ykNts_tGKQ
Wishing You Ill
You think you know what I am better than I know myself.
You think it will hurt me to hear what I am.. ..from you.
You think that much of yourself.
But sweetheart, you have a blindspot when it comes to me.
I am just an old hot water bottle filled with tea and self-pity. I am the sound of disappointment echoing in an empty can; the last stationary spin of the room before a drunkard's lights go dim.
I am an unfurled fiver flaked with powder; the bang of a gavel in open court. I am the row of X's on an unopened birthday card from the mother of a grown child, too busy.
I am that slow head hung walk back home from the bookies on payday. I'm a training wheel hanging loose on a missing child's bicycle, and I am far, far harder on myself that you could ever hope to be.
But I am also the owner of tomorrow morning's crooked half-smile, as I consider once more how lucky I am, to be rid of you.
I know what I am, but I dread what you are.
********
Love blooms in shadows as we conceal from our amours all those nasty cracks in our character that only a friend can ignore. We hide them in hopes of finding that we have found a lover as forgiving as a friend.
We rarely do, and when we don't we should count ourselves lucky if we can untangle ourselves with a little dignity left intact.
When it doesn't work out so cleanly as that then we sometimes see how close to each other love and hate can be, and that's closer and crueler than Reverend Harry Powell's fists.
