Comfort means nothing...

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
This poem was written more than twenty five years ago, but something made me think about it and hunt it out. It references the poem Ozymandias by PB Shelley in a slight way. I still like it for some reason, possibly because it reminds me of a reckless time of life.

Submitted: January 13, 2012

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Submitted: January 13, 2012

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Comfort Means Nothing

Won’t While Away the Hurt

When I Wake Up Painted Red

And Haven't Any Turps

 

I wrote a poem in a far off time

That said virtually nothing

But it was enough to buy a young girl's soul

And later at a party

She kissed me and gave me comfort

And printed marks with red paint

Upon my arms with her hands

 

Lower down

Around my scars

Was a bracelet

She'd placed there as if to say

What we did and didn't do this night

Is and isn't right or wrong

Just a bit of comfort

At a party whose drunk and splattered participants

Let us cuddle

Within the realms

Of the noisy muddle

 

Few people remained

When we found sense to leave

And go our separate ways;

Two burnt out shattered wrecks

From previous collisions

 

And now I wake to find

Her fingerprints

Painted in passion (well, red)

And a bracelet for reminder

Or will I remember anyway

After I've washed the paint away.


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