In which Lemonie attempts to be a poet

I bring lame poetry! I've never been a great poet but hey. By far the poet I've read the most stuff by is Carol Ann Duffy (I studied her both at GCSE and AS level) and she tends to go for the whole unstructured, free verse, I-don't-care-about-metre-or-rhyme thing so I seem to have adopted that. I quite like writing in sonnet form too but it gets a bit time-consuming and doesn't really work for a lot of things.

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The Split


You ask for your CDs back.
Fine, I say
I would like my books
The Scrabble set is mine too
Fine. Fine.

But it isn’t.
You can’t put this right
You can take your photographs
I don’t want them
But how can I return
the moments they stole from time?
The seconds they caught,
and stored in ink?
I don’t want those either.

And while we’re at it
I do want back
all of the tears I cried
over the years into
your jacket; your shoulder; your hair
They belonged to me
What have you done with them?

In fact, every word I ever wasted on you
was rightfully mine to now withdraw
Can you give me them?
No.
What a surprise.
You were always a disappointment.

When it comes down to it
All that I can really take back
is my battered heart
And irksomely
I think you know you still have that, too
If the tears that are now solely mine -
and mine alone
and pouring down my face
and searching for your jacket -
are anything at all to go by.

You can drop off my plant tomorrow, though.