The dishes are making me angry,
All relaxing after work in bubbles
While I just stand here and linger,
A kitchen ghost of scented soap.
People say my eyes are bright
So I scrub those glasses thoroughly
But it does nothing but show me.
My own hands go red on those
Horrible abrasive sponges
And much too hot water does
Nothing to soothe, just morphs into a
Boiling *** that riles my passing thoughts
Until I'm no longer pondering things.
I'm screaming in jealousy as I stack plates,
And fit bowls together so perfectly,
Maybe a drop falls because I'm cleaning
Dishes for one.
Maybe I'll smash them.