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Bids decides to leave me,
Imagine how I feel,
Discarded like a rotten sock,
Or moulding apple peel.
By Jove was it impromptu,
‘Dear God’, I said in awe,
See Biddle never told me,
His going was for sure.
I sobbed that night in anger,
At how I was not told,
‘It’s really not your choice,’ she said,
‘He’s really much too old.’
Indignantly I phoned her,
And told her of my plight,
‘I see,’ now back to bed again,
‘I warn you Lou. Good night.’
My thoughts of sneaky planning,
Fermented ‘till the dawn,
Yet still the tears welled up inside,
‘Good Gosh am I forlorn.’
The next few days alarmed me,
That Bids is leaving soon,
I planned and conjured master-schemes,
‘Till early afternoon.
‘Um, Mum,’ I said uneasily,
‘Perchance may I move school?’
This was my master-plan (of course),
With no one could I fool.
‘What’s brought this on,’ she inquests,
Now this was unforeseen,
‘Oh nothing,’ I continue,
The atmosphere serene.
I thought about my problem,
My ‘Biddle Fiasco’
My love for art now waning,
All I now feel is woe.
I contemplate my prospects,
By staring at the ground,
Counting both the blobs of paint,
And memories all around.
My eyes begin to water,
My face to boil and glow,
The ground on which I flounder,
Grows wet with ache and woe.
I called her back and told her,
‘There’s nothing we can do,
For now I can but falter,’
‘Stop crying will you Lou!’
I ogled in the mirror,
A face of loss and pain,
‘Oh Biddle how you’ve hurt me!
Though you are not to blame.’
Abatement saw my entrance,
My face, such misery,
My prospects as an artist,
Is an eternity.
Devoid of inspiration,
Am I now Bids has left,
Alone and dry of thought or scheme,
No longer am I deft.
My destiny pursue me,
It took me by the hand,
‘Is Biddle gonna stay?’ I asked’
He nodded bold and grand.
Euphoria unstable,
My heart did fill with glee,
My mind’s own eye could prosper,
Until infinity.
Alas, I woke with sorrow,
My dream was not a truth,
I sobbed a further thousand times,
My nightmare so uncouth.
Surrender, fail, and falter,
My Biddle left at last,
I waved my hand and whispered,
‘This love did die so fast.’
This now is a conclusion,
With sorrow do I say,
This final verse, an elegy,
‘Now Bids- be on your way.’
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Writer Profile
Lou Chaps
I am usually seen writing comical, eccentric poems about the most bizarre of forms. From Fruit to School Teachers, from Tragedy to plain truth. Enjoy my poetry, laugh at my eccentricity.
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