Miserable
One quiet moment free
of shipwrecked rusted iron duty
to sit and write some kind of poem,
and yet, my centered self's not home.
I stew and simmer in my pot,
for manacled is my sad lot,
preoccupied with what comes next,
"The dog needs food".
"Come rub my neck".
And never one kind word of thanks,
just steely eyes and verbal spanks,
and selfishness that's gotten old,
wasted on me like a meal gone cold.
Continuous complaints I can't repair
As if I could fix what your neighbor wears?
Petty hollering before it hurts,
sinister dreams, unhappiness dirt,
that fills your empty bucket holes
not knowing the patch is a charitable soul
Unconditional love you weren't born with
You eat the peach - throw me the pit
You'll never change, that much is clear
I've finally had it up to here.
Lord have mercy on she and me
I need a hot cup of Lipton tea.
poem by Sara Fielder
Added by Poetry Lover
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