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Cynthia Ruth Lewis (email)


About the Poet:

Cynthia, 41, hails from Chicago. She has been writing on and off for twenty years and has recently begun submitting her work to various sites and magazines.  Her poems have appeared in Underground Voices, Nerve Cowboy, Cerebral Catalyst, Cherry Bleeds, My Favorite Bullet, and more.





You weigh on me like a hangover;


each visit, a vat of bourbon

poured into my bloodstream,

each trial and tribulation

dulling my senses

until I'm totally enervated,

complete with pounding head...


Like good wine that's gone bad,

you're quite easy to resist,

but much like the effects of alcohol,

you have an uncanny knack for lingering.





I could have kept up the act.

I could have kept my mouth closed.

I could have been whiling away the hours in your bed if I hadn't spoken up and ended it


you were creeping into my blood,

invading my dreams,

stealing my every thought,

and you weren't even mine;

I was simply borrowing you


I knew you loved another woman,

but you'd told me how beautiful

and desirable I was,

and I melted like an ice cube in Phoenix and got in way over my head, attaching myself to you, completely destroying my future


It wasn't that I was desperate;

I wasn't the kind to threaten suicide

or kill you if you refused me,

but I realized I was heading down

a lonely and frustrating road

and wasn't exactly sure what would be

awaiting me at the other end

if I chose to keep going,

so I wrapped duct tape around my heart

to keep it from breaking

and inhaled the deepest breath I ever

took in my life, and, after a few

moments that seemed to last an eternity, simply said I couldn't see you anymore, and quickly walked away before you even thought to consider asking my why.





I think I'd rather have my teeth pulled

than engage in a conversation with you,



you make things difficult because you can, creating problems where none exist always knowing exactly which nerve of mine to pluck


it's always seemed a thrill for you


I don't know what kind of sickness

compels you to do this--

perhaps your own parents

played mind games with you;

poking at your psyche,

playing dodge-ball with your emotions,

making sport of your confusion and


as you do with mine now


I think I could have endured

a physical smack now and then

in your quest to do harm,

but the repercussions of these

psychotic mind games are more

deeply ingrained in my system;


where there is no air or light

for them to heal,

yet you periodically continue this routine, this attack, when you, yourself, felt the pain and how deep it could go and the thing I'll never understand is that you're definitely old enough now to know better.





I can't move

I can't breathe

I can't talk

I can't think

I can't live

I can't be

I give up


where is me?





You don't know me

so get your nose out of the air--

you'll only get rainwater in it


At least I'm not a clone;

I can think on my own.

I can distinguish between an emotion

and a noun


I can tell the difference between

silicone and sincerity


You do not move outside your limits.

You do not color outside the lines.

I will not conform to your preferences

so you can tell me mine


I am real. I can think.

I can move without a hand to pull my strings.

You're so busy trying to get

others to follow your path,

you can't see where it's leading you


I admit, I rarely look before I leap,

but at least I'll jump into the water,


before I'm quick to judge how cold,

how deep.