Blog Archive

Sunday, April 5, 2009


Pasta bubbles like
angry words slurred
across an empty bar;
the scars crippling
on the inside.

Moist steam
warms a pale face
revealing truths
like breath on
a cracking window pane.

The food will be cold
before it hits
those deaf walls,
words fumbling
between rocking sobs
composure saved only
for authorities visits.


findingmywingsinlife said...

Lovely poems you have here, I will have to come visit you more often. And thank you for all of your encouraging comments on M.IV, I truly appreciate them.

Every Photo Tells A Story said...

How beautiful but oh so sad, Sarah-Paige. These scars are the ones that take the longest to heal, if they ever do:

the scars crippling
on the inside.

ambersun said...

Hi again

Another lovely poem. It seems to be about some kind of prison - metaphorical or physical? Is that what you're getting at?

Thanks for your comments on my blog. I've left responses there.