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?