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If you read the stories they’ll tell you I wasted it
The noise they loved to hear
The actions they loved to jeer
They would tell you that I’m not going to reap the benefit of it all
Because I wasted it on this one choice
And then the scribbles on the bathroom wall
Where mothers sling mud towards sluts green, tan, or tall
And others tap their feet waiting their turn to draw
They’ll whisper
If only she could have seen the beauty we all know is true
If only she could have let go of the demons, though fierce
We all seem to go through
If only she knew what we knew
And appreciated her as much as she didn’t herself
Maybe then she wouldn’t have wasted that talent on that choice
But I’m not apologetic
I’m not even rested
I’m no longer presuming to be understood by the noise of others who dared to critique my dream
I lived a life that granted me pain
And the choice I made to soak myself into it again and again
Was a critique I could only bear to take at the cost of this fame
To which you now say is wasted
Yet you still scribble
You still talk
You still find a means to purchase my jovial walk
And the pain you live through my tears was that chalk
It would seem that you taught the wrong point
If you are still investing in me
Apparently there’s yet something valuable in my life’s press
Between the squishiness of your attention for a life vest I was granted hot air
And despite any means that I would take to cork it
You just kept letting my waste flow
From one set of glass ears into another I continued to flow
Even when the proverbial tree that wastes for your tastes has no more root
No new stories to boot
No products to rock or melodies that suit occasions for lust and brute challenges
No more of that loot
Because of my choice
And your insistent opinion that I wasted it
Maybe you’ll see what really lies in this wine house
When all of your tears can’t be tainted with my noise
And all of the toys that used to indulge my outpourings become tepid reminders of joys
You will realize that I’ve not wasted anything at all
I just ran out of noise to be squished out of me
Now you are left to waste your press on another wine skin
Left to write your own melodies of angels wings broken again
And maybe in a solo outtake where a smile is a bit genuine
You’ll turn from thinking of my talents as waste and believe that they were ingredients for something better
Better for what I don’t know
Better for whom I won’t dare
But I will stare into the void devoid of heavenly promises and hell’s care
I’ll finally smile because you’ll realize that what you called waste was sweet wine to me
And everything that I shared with you inside of my heart’s melody
Was the house that was built for just this moment to be
Remembered as anything but wasted.

Amy Whinehouse (Sept 14, 1983 – July 23, 2011)

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Posted in: PoetryComments Off on Poem: Remembered As Anything But Wasted