Woman.
 

Woman.
You're speaking to me as if words are somehow original.
Your tongue was planted; a seed of my own saliva.

I'm no good at parties,

and you're wearing heels.
Walking around forgetting how I crafted
Your feet while you stood under white
Lights, naked with one knee bent.
Pointed at my left shoulder.

I could smell it from where I sat.

It's the heels that soured you.
Poisoned you against me--
I intended you to never wear shoes.

You deny me.
As if you've got any right at all.

So are the (high?) heels a phallic metaphor?

Nothing is new, every idea is recycled.

Definitely not my intention, but if it works for you, go for it.

Miss Ophelia, yours is an interesting poem. Like many of your submissions that I've read so far, there is a strong erotic mood about it.

The woman in this poem reminds me of the automation in E.T.A. Hoffmann's "The Sandman". Many of your references sound as if the woman is in fact the writer's physical creation. Rather than being sensual, "The Sandman" emphasises horror though. I wonder what you mean by this poem...

I dont get it. Why write a poem bout somebody not paying attention to you? You might be better off with having your creations pay you some attention if you spent mor time with them insted of writing a poem about them not liking you.

Good point, almost.

thnks dude! :D

She might prefer "dudette" over dude. But whatever licks your knickers mate.