Before you read:
I wrote this poem a month or so ago at an “American Literary History and Culture” class. While discussing an Emily Dickinson poem, which is actually one of my favorite poets out there. She is too.. what is the word: me? Yes she is somehow me. One friend asks me why do you love her so much? I said: because when I read for her it’s like I’m reading for me. I’ll be talking about her later on. Anyway when I wrote it I left it incomplete and when I came back to it and read it I thought: it ended right where I left it hanging. It doesn’t need an ending. I love it that way. So now I give it a title with the first line. It is a free verse no rhyming scheme of whatsoever. It is a poem of the struggle of the inner self and an the trust of another person. While the inner self wants some assurance of some sort. Enjoy!:
I promise… And what is a promise?
I say… And what is speech?
I give…. And what is a giving hand?
What is all without its true meanings?
Given this, a double edged view, should you now trust?
A question, sincere or not, should you trust me?
Should you give your body, mind, and soul?
Or most importantly give the heart of yours in the hands of mines?
Should you trust that I will handle it gently?
With care. like I handle mines, no manipulations?