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.
3 weeks ago
3 comments:
Sarah-Paige,
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.
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.
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.
Amber
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