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The woman poured herself another glass of wine,
Like another night alone.
The house was empty,
And the humming of the dishwasher bounced off the walls.
She sat by the window and pulled the black heels off her feet.
This was beginning to get old.
People outside paced in pairs.
Her house was dark.
The only light came from the kitchen,
glowing out to the adjacent ro0m.
She sipped at her wine, and rested the glass on her knee.
With an exasperated sigh,
She threw the wine glass against the opposite wall.
The glass flew, sparkling in the dim light
And merlot ran down the white wall.
She dusted off her hands, and undressed silently.
In the bathroom, she started water for a shower.
In silence, once again, she stood under the rush of water.
An hour's time went by, and the water was shut off.
Without bothering to dry herself, she stepped out,
And fell into bed.
HRTsOnFyR Dec 2015
Tears and mascara make watercolors,
A charcoal coloured liquid maneuvering across my skin...
Illuminating all the cracked lines,
Seeping into my pores, into my being...
Blackening the rough edges within.
Its raining while the birds are still singing.
It always feels like November
In the Land of the dead and dreaming...
I am stuck on repeat.
This nightmare keeps on depleting my hope.
My heart is utterly broken.
Every word left unspoken becomes a poisoned arrow...
A dagger in my throat.
I'm sorry for being me.
I'd take it all back if I could.
jeremy wyatt  Dec 2010
Excuses
jeremy wyatt Dec 2010
Excuses are like hooses, they involve dwelling,
though you are all to wise and aren't buying what we're selling.

Cocconed within the words run thin
with each repetetive telling.

If excuses were like mooses with big handles on their heads,
the scary waft would warn you off and fibs not need be said.

(but the moose could start a-pooin' and the carpet would be ruined,
ravaged to its last remaining thread).

So feeling dicky, slightly sicky, see the daughters, broken waters,
what the hell comes first into the mind,

leave behind.
Well, the thing is......I'm sort of... you know...
Partial Artist Mar 2020
If my head isn't right
How can I be wrong?
Shut in a box
Where I don't belong

I can't stand the tapping
The meaningless screeching
Surrounded by sanity
The walls you are breaching

Strike up the meltdown
Straight from the source
One pull of the trigger
Blows away my remorse

So far from deaf
I can't stand the noise
One little cough
Infects all my joys

One after another
You hit every peeve
The repetetive nature
Me fighting to leave

Each piercing noise
Day after day
Drowning in silence
With so much to say
have spent three days

handwriting, neatly. it gets

on my nerves that it is so

tidy, repetetive, that i never

did achieve the badge at school

for such a skill.





words a bother too,

always gentle, no grit

really, no filth, or dastardly

deeds.



i spent three days writing,

one eye closed, storm building.



you never know what goes on

behind the scenes.

sbm.
Noname  Jun 2019
No advice
Noname Jun 2019
So many words to speak
So little ears to hear these endless run on sentences
That pour out of my mouth
Repetetive and loud
Sickening and angry
Like a broken record they say
I say
**** em
No one asked you
I'm just tellin
have spent three days

handwriting, neatly. it gets

on my nerves that it is so

tidy, repetetive, that i never

did achieve the badge at school

for such a skill.

words a bother too,

always gentle, no grit

really, no filth, or dastardly

deeds.

i spent three days writing,

one eye closed, storm building.

you never know what goes on

behind the scenes.

sbm.

— The End —