Of Writing

Some people are annoyed at me

And I suppose it is no wonder.

In spending hours in writing,

I’m leaving them to blunder

Through the chores

And all the dishes.

I dole out hugs,

Intermittent

Kisses.

But really,

It’s an awful ask,

To cease, desist, refrain

From task

Of writing what I have to pour

Upon these pages and

Many more.

The dam has burst,

It’s here to stay.

They muddle on

In disarray,

Mum has left

The kitchen sink,

I’ve disappeared

To write and think.

The truth is out,

They can’t decide

If mum’s depressed

And needs to hide.

When all I try

To say to them, is

I’m pouring ink from

Out of pen

Upon the whiteness

Of the page,

Please understand,

Don’t fuss

Or rage

At absence in

The living room,

I’m stoking fire

Of words

To bloom,

Like flowers

On the window sill,

I’ve not forgotten

Boy or girl.

But I am out

And this is it,

Live and learn,

Don’t give a shit

If ironing’s done

Or who hit whom.

Sort it out.

I’m in my room

Feeling freer

Than before,

Open mind,

Closed bedroom door.

What to say to

Those who matter,

I’m here beside you

But you must cater

To my needs,

When after all

I work all day,

Cease not at all.

In evening’s light

I spend my time

Fixing words

That want to rhyme,

Shaping thoughts

That form in mind,

Reliving dream

I have to find

To end the pain

Of silent pen.

I’m still here,

You’ll live again.

 

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