Floating On Swollen Feet
The yelling the screaming the fighting,
Vegetables are cooked but he pays no minding of efforts to disway the sighing.
Blood boils like the pasta in the pan,
Cooked for an always complaining man.
Air sucked from lungs constricting tight,
It's a wonder no one's been hurt with rage filled might.
Squabbling never ceases to amaze,
This young poet it certainly doth phase.
Wings torn off an angel without so much as a scoff,
It happens with a scream ever so soft.
Nothing really matters anymore,
No justice for someone treated like a whore.
Do what is ordered or you'll be out on the street,
All there is to stand on is water swelled feet,
Stand up for yourself or you'll never be free,
Just stuck in the same sail-less boat as me.
Copyright © Benjamin Johnson | Year Posted 2019
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