My uniforms the same color as the napkins
My shoes are all covered in muck
The knife goes on the right side of the plate facing in
I'm starting to not give a ****
There's gum on the bottom of the tables
The foreigners tip me in dimes
This place is a ghost town on lunch shifts
So I sit at the bar cutting limes
If this double shift doesn't end soon
And the manager asks me to close
It's 4 am be back in 6 hours
Mid day ghost town doing fold ups and rolls
Does the steak best pair with the red or the white?
Do I look like one who tends to fine dine?
I'll just make some **** up to impress for a tip
And pray to God Facebook thinks I'm doing fine
I am NOT doing fine
First poem on here.
Every ounce of me wants to write for you
But I can't
Something will not let me.
So I sit awe struck
And search and search and search and search and search and searchandsearchandsearchandsearchandsearchandsearchandsearch
My brain in a desperate, wild hunt for words worthy of writing in your honor
Yet I fear the well is empty.
I fear that the grand fount of creativity has run dry.
That this is what comes of an attempt to write of you is proof enough to me.
Where have you gone, oh Muse?
Once prismatic brilliance;
brilliant only through borrowed light;
alone again in darkness, glum;
gleams, instant companion of night --
blind to grief and deaf to joy,
save by pristine thought, on lonely height:
a lone, canine howl reports and echoes,
as nocturnal critters hide, out of sight.*
Secrets are my amplifier.
They burn in my heart like a forest fire.
I am made of those closeted items
they live in me like I'm their phylum.
For only I can keep such dark whispers
hid inside with painful shivers.
Speaking as the queen of hiding
I can assure that it is only time you are biding.
If you believe you can keep silent
think again, because the thoughts get violent.
Secret keeping is not for the faint of heart
it is, in fact, a sacred art.
— The End —