The Poet

A repetitive moment of my life.

The poet
sits alone in a house
with fluttering flies.
the trash, only grows around her:
empty food cans, dirty dishes
and the plants she forgot to water.

She presses the coffee cup to her lips
and takes in her addiction.
not the caffeine, the coffee:
mocha, non-dairy creamer and two
heaping spoons of sugar.

The flies continue to multiply-
as does the filth.

she stares and stares at the
silent phone.
trying to make it ring with her mind.
but this makes her feel dumb
and even more alone.

Out loud she reads the poems she has written
about the boy who doesn't call.
she sips another sip of coffee
and tells herself why she is wrong.

somewhere in the world
that she avoids to see
someone is sewing for her
a straight jacket,
and setting up her
padded room.

Author's Note

Please let me know what you think. Thank You

Reviews

[Eagle Cruagh]

Awwww this is very sad.
Lonliness, the greatest curse.
I dont think she needs a straight
jacket. She needs a friend, a
friends and a lover.
The poem is well written thoutful,
intelligent and well crafted.
Good writiing
---- John

[Distant horizons]

Yep!
Know that feeling.
But don't worry.
If you're good
They give you crayons to write with :-)
Wonderfully written, as always

[Chris]

I liked the assumptions voiced by the last stanza