Bad Fit

How many nails do I have to have
hammered into my brain to realise
we don't fit?

This liaison has always been flawed.
Gel, we never did, but we had passion.
A wealth of it.

Should I take this hammer
and strike the final blow?
I don't know.

Hammers strike memories,
as though they're all piano keys
and the sound is harsh..

They have me re-visiting old war wounds
that I should have buried years ago.
They are awakening.

They've been dormant for so long.
Maybe I should have one final strike
and put them to rest.

The trouble is, if I pick up the hammer
and strike the first blow,
I may never stop

poem by Ruth Walters
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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