The Writer
The book lies open
discarded notes
framing the corner
your room so quaint
pictures hang
askew!
You carefully smile
avoiding
guarding
You have learned to guard
a wastepaper basket
full of nothing, so you say
wrinkled corners peak
over the edge
You silently wring your hands
trying to hide
To hide what?
Who you are?
Where you came from?
Your gut wrenching love
spills, your fevered mumblings
You stare at the basket
then turn away
It’s just not good!
Just not good enough
How can you be so sure
if you hide
and, don’t tell the world
Don’t let go!
Don’t ever let go!
Your conscience screams
Your cupboards full
of empty corners
Your fridge unexplored
Your hands cold
And your unwaning love
begging from an impatient
metal Bin
Where perhaps, rejection sits?
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