Tea Poem Writer's Cramp 8/8/16 {b-item:2092777} |
A little cup of serenity. Angel sweat i like to think or courage in a teabag. time heals, how trite but hopeful I tell myself lots of things he didn’t leave me for her the I’m-a-fabulous-person mantra a better life ahead bullshit. it’s all in the kettle now filling with water and the burner flaming the pot until steam whistles while I watch waited,watched and waited but he didn’t return letting the hurt fill the vessel to boil it away. shock and shame shoved down my throat disappointment hate left me crying inside then tears stream to the sky on wings with the vapors. Oolong aroma wafts to merge with my feelings creating a little dance of drama and despair, loathing and yes, death desire on sylvia plath proportions. then the feel of fingers wrapped around nice china with saucer — otherwise you might as well drink coffee or scotch, and maybe a Walker shortbread biscuit as ladies and gents across the pond. I write and write and live on through thoughts journals stories fiction (which is real life in disguise subtle jabs at those who must not be named stacked unread in shoe boxes under the half empty king bed) cathartic yes but quiet moments and a stilled mind keep sanity hanging on just a little bit longer. Sip. I Wish. Sip. I Dream. Sip. Sleep like a baby. A fifty-ish, abused, cheated on, overweight by forty-four pounds, baby. |