2 poems, by ROBERT ALLEN


There is a
viciousness to
it; the way
some love
grinds you down
like a millstone,
like pepper, or
threshed wheat.
Not all love is
but some darkens
the room and gives
birth to
endless night.


My therapist told me
to write
a poem
about the images
in my head.
So I bared what
I was and what
I wanted to be.
(meanwhile sipping tea)
in her office, watching
her read the poem. Her
lips moved quietly as
she read. I was afraid
she would see all
of me.
And I hated it,
And I wanted to
go home
after sharing
so much
with a stranger, a void,
an empty vessel for me
to fill up full, with truths and
half-truths, and all out lies.

Photo by Dziana Hasanbekava on Pexels.com

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