The Tamer and the Shrew

A poem about an old friend, and our unhealthy relationship.


How do I loathe thee?
Let me count the ways:
I hate your moonless, pitch-black nights
and your cloudy, rain-filled days.
The sun is up, the sun is down;
we never seem to once agree.
In a circle, round and round,
on a carousel are we.
You starve me like the raven
and you beat me like the slave.
I'm forced to sit and listen
as you ramble on and rave.
You have deemed me so unworthy
of the slightest vague attentions,
making nothing of my efforts-
all my greatest of intentions.
You have forced me to my knees
in a customary bow
but I'm determined to break free,
and that's my solitary vow.
You say I am unruly
but, dear, many disagree;
they see me for my softer side-
the lonely girl in me.
You've cracked your whip to break me,
make me something you could love.
You contrived for me concealing masks,
like hands within a glove.
But I'll not be distorted,
for I'm not your molding clay.
I won't again be garnished,
for I'm no one's art display.
In this game, you stand as "Tamer"
and, I, the unloved shrew.
But I won't change my wicked ways
to be good enough for you.