The Nude Writer

There she sits on that dated cream sofa,

That notebook in which she confides,

A contrast to the dark apartment,

A wilted rose inside.

 

Ten years she’s waited, no more, no less

And yet the transcripts stay, gathering dust,

A thousand thoughts and emotions expressed        

Through passionate words of lust.

 

As a hazy sunset glares monotonously through the window

On a once curvaceous figure dampened with tears

She peers out at the flickering city lights

Patiently waiting for another opportunity to appear.

 

A wardrobe in the corner,

Brimming with moth-bitten clothes,

This nude, heartbroken mourner

Sits there writing yet another letter.

 

Humming serenely, ashamed of her mislead life,

She remains stark naked, writing dark poetry

Inspired by personal strife.

 

What could have been? She asks curiously,

Delicately stroking self-inflicted scars.

A writer? Journalist? Poet? Imagining miserably

While living a life behind self-made bars.

 

A paper box of sedatives,

The sweet musky scent of cologne.

A pinch of self-hatred and defiance,

As her next customer enters the room. 

Author's Note

Please leave critique.

Reviews

[Hester Vane]

Wow, brilliant written. I did not expect the twist at the end. A great read

[Sarah W. French]

I love the imagery in this poem. It is written so well.

[SaRuGi]

It is a really new opinion, something that is really bold to write about, which is a good thing! to be brave and 创新. This is the perfect example of being bold. And this is a mind-blowing poem to read. :D