She let him run his fingers through her hair.
Sometimes she let him tear them from their roots.
She’d let him sing poems of care,
Sometimes let him spill venom and be rude.
She was his slave.
Sometimes his muse.
To her, he will always be, just another man.
Poet and his muse
PS: My tenth contribution to NaPoWriMo.
Picture courtesy:
 | Jackjones on I’m Angry |
 | mitchellez on I’m Angry |
| Jackjones on I’m Angry |
| mitchellez on Happy Birthday Handsome |
| mitchellez on Rich |
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Myshelle Congeries 
Wonderful, and so true as anyone who has survived a violent relationship will confirm
April 15, 2013 at 9:25 pm
🙂 It’s about the violence some women endure calling it their fate.
Thanks for stopping by Dave.
April 15, 2013 at 9:29 pm
Absolutely love this one. This is very similar to how I would have written this thought.
April 17, 2013 at 12:38 am
Thank you! 🙂
April 17, 2013 at 7:49 am
O wow. What a take this poem has.
April 19, 2013 at 3:43 pm
🙂 Thanks.
April 19, 2013 at 8:05 pm
You’ve hit the nail on the head my friend, and driven it deep inside. Keep the ink flowing.
April 20, 2013 at 1:09 pm
I’m sadistic like that! 😉
April 20, 2013 at 1:57 pm
Hello , you are awsome writer, i love your site
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May 12, 2013 at 11:45 am