When the going gets tough
all rocky and rough
It’s nice to be able to verse it.
Although life doesn’t rhyme,
not most of the time,
tweaking words can help make it less worse; it
keeps the heading on course,
does a lot for remorse,
and allows me to swim through the horse shit.
“My Heart was His Piñata”
My heart was his piñata
all terra cotta fragile
cartoon-figured baby
Está para usted, hombre
“Those sweets inside, they’re
mine, all mine” …
Blindfolded, cannot see,
but strikes
and strikes again
seeking flaws
sensing weakness
Precise, controlled
(no wild blows at this party)My heart was his piñata
strung up well within reach
twisting in the wind
full, too full, with goodies
meant for sharing
He’s happy. He loves it,
makes music he sings
as he swings,
We laugh with the joy of it
Come the final crack,
shattered shell, empty hope
spilled treasures
Mi corazón está quebradoMy heart was his piñata
A collection of my short stories:
I'm in this one, too ...
And I'm in here, as well ...
Paradise Preoccupied 
((((((hugs))))))
Thank you, Brian …
I wish you love. The kind that loves back.
Loves back ENOUGH … that’s the key. Thanks!
what do i say for the Arab? my heart was his Molotov cocktail that he chucked about to make things blow, and then he’ll have laugh about it and then invites everyone for a drink… hehehe… nice poem Sands, I can really feel what you were going through with that hombre… next time talk about his nuts being the pinata and you the American baseball player… i already have a babeball bat if you want to borrow it…
Obviously, you, too, are a poet at heart …
When I read your words my mind sees a brat, a little spoiled boy who thinks the world revolves around him. He was/is not a Man, Sandra, and surely doesn’t know what Love is. He needs a Mommy – not a fine, sophisticated Woman who deserves a relationship of Love and Respect. Good riddance.
His words might give a different picture, sims, and he has some fine points I will always miss … just not enough of those, though … and respect is a requirement.
A really good poem, Sandra. Your heart being a pinata is a good analogy. The first strike is agony, the other blows devastating to a heart full of love and hope for the future. The final blow…unspeakable pain. Everything you hold dear is dashed to the ground and scattered…how to pick up the pieces? You’re doing it. One piece at a time. I am very proud of you.
Thanks, V … I hope that in the picking-up process I find a few of the sweets, too …