"worktops" poems - Hello Poetry

If only you’d done the washing up I wouldn’t be slamming plates into the sink Half sobbing Half seething Stubbornly burning my hands on water that’s too hot Angrily scrubbing at three day old tomato sauce And bits of chips and jumbo sausage that have welded themselves to the plate If only you’d done the washing up We could have *** later But we can’t now Because I’ll be too tired and bitter after doing the washing up Again Do you think I like washing up? Don’t you think I’d rather be sitting on the sofa Watching crap on the telly Safe in the knowledge that the sink is empty The plughole is clean And the worktops are sparkling I bet Beyonce doesn’t have to do the washing up I bet she has a dishwasher If only you’d done the washing up You wouldn’t need to call me childish For getting worked up over something as silly as the washing up And I wouldn’t be standing here wondering If you’ll ever really get it “It’s only the washing up” you say Exactly So just ****** well do it next time ********

0

Dec 9, 2012

Dec 9, 2012 at 11:58 AM UTC

jojo-oldham

If only you'd done the washing up

If only you’d done the washing up I wouldn’t be slamming plates into the sink Half sobbing Half seething Stubbornly burning my hands on water that’s too hot Angrily scrubbing at three day old tomato sauce And bits of chips and jumbo sausage that have welded themselves to the plate If only you’d done the washing up We could have *** later But we can’t now Because I’ll be too tired and bitter after doing the washing up Again Do you think I like washing up? Don’t you think I’d rather be sitting on the sofa Watching crap on the telly Safe in the knowledge that the sink is empty The plughole is clean And the worktops are sparkling I bet Beyonce doesn’t have to do the washing up I bet she has a dishwasher If only you’d done the washing up You wouldn’t need to call me childish For getting worked up over something as silly as the washing up And I wouldn’t be standing here wondering If you’ll ever really get it “It’s only the washing up” you say Exactly So just ****** well do it next time ********

29

Your mouth opening as it takes in the bitter sweetness of an orange's flesh peel littering the worktops that your grandmother spent hours scrubbing down scrubbing until the very eye of the oak starred back at her we don't have time for such arduous chores, we don't look at wood in the same way we do not respect it, until the sky spits out a spark and the trees that held the oranges, burn down what are we now?

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Oct 23, 2017

Oct 23, 2017 at 1:18 PM UTC

emmaelisabethwood

Oranges

Your mouth opening as it takes in the bitter sweetness of an orange's flesh peel littering the worktops that your grandmother spent hours scrubbing down scrubbing until the very eye of the oak starred back at her we don't have time for such arduous chores, we don't look at wood in the same way we do not respect it, until the sky spits out a spark and the trees that held the oranges, burn down what are we now?

16

It's the moment to open those heavy eyelids Another day levers the jaws of normality apart Imprisoned into the bedding cheek folds Sleep has struggled to keep me away Windows luring to be opened Breakfast passed without eating Demands of the day start to totter in their pile The phone and the front door remain silent Fluctuating energy tips me over in a downward spiral The ceiling looks uninteresting looking up from my cold floor My head a waste paper bin filled to the brim Unopened correspondence gravely dejected A cracked mobile screen locks in unworthy secrets Fast food packaging dresses the worktops shoulders The thread is missing its needle My ears deaf to my own voice So many biased replies A black hole awaiting my detritus My head maybe on wrong But my heart is in a better place

0

Jun 22, 2022

Jun 22, 2022 at 5:15 PM UTC

kevin-wright-2

My head maybe be on wrong

It's the moment to open those heavy eyelids Another day levers the jaws of normality apart Imprisoned into the bedding cheek folds Sleep has struggled to keep me away Windows luring to be opened Breakfast passed without eating Demands of the day start to totter in their pile The phone and the front door remain silent Fluctuating energy tips me over in a downward spiral The ceiling looks uninteresting looking up from my cold floor My head a waste paper bin filled to the brim Unopened correspondence gravely dejected A cracked mobile screen locks in unworthy secrets Fast food packaging dresses the worktops shoulders The thread is missing its needle My ears deaf to my own voice So many biased replies A black hole awaiting my detritus My head maybe on wrong But my heart is in a better place

20