January 15, 2009
By Meaghan Morris, South Easton, MA

I don't like how he approaches
With the slimy swagger of 100 roaches.
If he raises his hand to strike my limbs,
Then why do I love him?

His friends gather in bulk, with masks,
They laugh as he brutally attacks.
When I can still feel their sneers,
Why I do hold him near?

His sweat glistens across my bones,
While his hand stifles my screams and moans.
His blood swims in my streams,
While he devours my self-esteem.

I know that it is me he loves,
Even though I am unworthy of
The affection he rarely flaunts,
Or even of his time or taunts.

We will all hurt despite everything.
So I accept every jeering sting.
I am brainwashed to please,
But isn't that part of this love disease?

The author's comments:
Funny story. At first, I actually wrote this about Voldemort and Harry Potter from the forth book when he ties Harry up and summons the Death Eaters and all that jazz. Then, I just worked in a few personal experiences of mine, and wah-lah.

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This article has 1 comment.

mbfangel said...
on Feb. 2 2009 at 2:52 am
i absolutely love this poem!!!!

i love the message it sends and i can totally relate.. i would love to see it published someday.

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