Wifey flings open bedroom door,
Not gazing kindly, a picture she draws,
Wife blows her nose, her cheeks are a'rose,
Her husband lies there, full of moans,
Her husband begs,
Wifey  takes a breath,
"Yes, dear, I know you have a man-cold,
But, dear, I,  too, have a man-cold,
But women are not allowed to groan
or nag, says men, you are alone,
I, too, have a man-cold,
But, this washing is getting old,
I'm cooking tea and minding the kids,
No, dear,  I shan't make soup like your mother did,
Yes, dear, the undertakers are near,
Here's your last will for your man cold, dear,
Yes, dear, I know you have a man-cold,
Your whinging, is, like, well, old!
I have to iron your shirts now,
Yes, dear, I know I am a fat old cow,
But, dear, I have your ***** in my purse,
I do hope our man colds don't get worse!"

It's on days like these,
When the sky is a cloud,
That I wish I could sit
For a bit
In the sky-
And watch from a cloud
How the days go by;
How the world goes round,
And why people die.
It wouldn't be easy
Amongst all the chaos
To find any meaning
Or reason or rhyme.
Perhaps that is why
I decide to write poems;
My words all have meaning
And some of them rhyme!

Hoarse words with their form.
Callous spirit in his drawn.
Macabre dreams are in seeming.
Flowers when I am a dreaming.

Love for the sweet and true.
Scintillating morning dew.
Bring his heart back unto me.
Candid with our misery.

A well spoken boy, but true enough.
Not without the ruff and tough.
Manic trees kiss the breeze.
Love infects these stupid trees.

Oh, but am I kidding?
Well that you'll never know.
That boy with his streaky hair.
And eyes a flaming glow.

Beautiful and sublime.
Miserably frozen.
Hoping without deserving hope.
To be the one he's chosen.

Oh, but I wouldn't beg on that.
No, not without a written contract.
To say unto us forever more.
That he would never walk out that door.

When will I ever be satisfied?

Will the earth have to shake and the heavens burst open and the almighty whomever have to come down specifically to me and award me for my good improvement?

Will I have to become a perfect, ethereal being who feels nothing but strength and goodness and saves the entire land?

Will I have to not be me anymore?

What do I have to do to stop feeling so defeated by merely doing things that come naturally to my breathing self?

What do I have to think to stop hating myself at every ounce of weakness that i show, no matter how human?

What do I have to give up to ever not be inevitably dissatisfied with myself every once in awhile, having to accept this occasional misery or frustration to keep myself alive?

What does it take to be happy with who I am?

What is it like to be satisfied?

I don't know if I've ever known.

A verse from an ******* girl,
How not to save the world,
We all know the answers to this,
Industry leaders give it a miss,
The finance sector us to hector,
Is our nation to be beggars?
Division between the plebs, not grots,
Too much 'have' and 'have not',
We all know how not to save the world,
Verse to read from an ******* girl....

Everything I feel comes
to me all at once
or not at all.

I feel like I am being ripped open from the inside as my throat fills with fire from the sobs I am choking back. My eyes feel like damns about to burst because the flood gates were never build to contain this many tears. My head won't stop pounding as my thoughts ricochet around in my brain, leaving me with an ache in my skull that never seems to leave. My arms that once wrapped around you for comfort now lay limp at my sides lost without a cause. My legs that once ran up your stairs to see you, I now have to drag through the front door. But what hurts the most is the fact that I should be feeling all this pain but instead all I am left with is a void of emptiness that seems to be absorbing everything. And you can fix a broken heart and you can find someone to wipe away your tears but how, may I ask, am I supposed to fix this?
- *I'm still waiting for an answer