A ‘weathered face that’s lined in pain,’
That’s what I have now;
Thank you, Don McLean:
Now send me an artist with loving hands
To soothe it.
I have a weathered face that’s lined with pain
Which came perhaps from love,
Or love in vain
Youth vanished almost overnight
The night I learned
I could no longer see you;
Well after all, it wasn’t right
So why the hell
Did I feel this insistent need
To love you?
Perhaps only the worn lines of my weathered face
Perhaps it’s just the onset of old age
Creeping all unexpectedly
Though I can try
To hide it with makeup
The sunk declivities still show
Within the firm foundations
Of my face, this page:
A weathered face that’s lined in pain then
That’s not a reason to reject yourself;
These artist’s loving hands
Are all your own and all you own:
You write the lines
To soothe it.
© Experimentsinfiction 2020, All Rights Reserved
I hope you enjoyed this poem. I’ve been through lots of changes, many ups and downs recently, and I do feel that this has aged me. In a world of Instagram airbrushed perfection, I wanted to post this as my version of the truth. Women are often criticised for ‘letting themselves go’ as if they suddenly decide to abandon their youth and beauty. As if youth and beauty were the only things which made their lives worthwhile.
In other news, I’m guest posting at Voyage of the Mind later today with a twisted take on a classic fairytale, ‘Red Rapunzel.’ Do check it out and tell me what you think!