Today, I want you to leave.

But those eyes and sighs and pale lips linger.
Now, more than ever, a tad tinger.
I’ve always been a bit of a dainty drinker.

Today, I want you to leave.
So hold my hand, make me believe.

And atone for that tear drop with a smile,
for when you leave – it’s all a lie.

Today, I want you to leave.
So please stay,

© achillesheelpoetry, 2022

I Wish I Were A Painter

I wish I were a painter,
so I could paint my poems away.

So I wouldn’t have to strain and look for words,
and my brush would conveniently sway.

Red would mean I’m vexed and cross.
Blue, like an arrow, would pierce my thoughts.

Pink’s for when you’re in love,
and white for purity like a dove.

And then there’s black too,
and a little grey for me and you.

That’s the thing about painters,
they know and merge the fine line in grey.

For poets go on and on,
somehow trying to make it stay…

And on a cloudy day,
when all the world’s a gloom.

I’ll draw someone I miss,
instead of pondering for hours and hours over a stolen kiss.

If I were a painter,
I’d find not the right words,
for my palette would suffice.

Ice would mean ice,
not cold or avarice.
Purple would be a bed of lilacs,
and not blood blue.

And while I was at it,
I could afford to bend down and tie my shoe.

When it’s cold, I stay in.
On a sunny day, I go out.

Yet words come only when the souls cracks,
and I guess that’s what poetry is all about.

© achillesheelpoetry, 2022


The truth is the sun that shines bright,
in a clouded sky, a proud knight.
The truth is a shrouded bride,
her ambitions tucked away in plain sight.

The truth is a tiny little insect that crawls,
a lion that stalks, and a phoenix that falls.
The truth, yet, rises again,
looks you in the eye
and lies a great many bargain.

The truth is murk.
The truth is mist.
The truth, it is, placid bliss.
The truth is clear as the evening star.
The truth is near every far.

The truth of mist and murk and bliss,
of evening stars and a stolen kiss.

© achillesheelpoetry, 2022