Enough for today 

Enough for today with poetry about love
because while writing about it I didn't practice it.
Life often let's itself rather be described 
than lived.
That "you" of whom I always speak so highly
doesn't live except in the way I described you.
You kiss and you leave like the wind-vane turns.
My record keeps skipping a beat,
like it goes, as they say, in real life.

All those lovers with their doors slammed shut.
I wouldn't have the time to grab a pen If I had 
to check myself in front of a mirror all the time
with stiletto heels and manicured nails;
You can never catch a poetess on her own pen.
She always has an answer ready
because you hurt her like she had planned
although sometimes her words turn against her;
they're at least as unfaithful as her lovers.

My words are not. They stay chained to me.
Never was there a more cruel mother in poetry
than the one who kept her children pressed close against her:
'Stay forever like I whispered to you before'.
But no, ink is like blood.
So I say, go on, be free,
but don't go home with strange men.