You are pondering the smoothness inside
your mouth, thinking all the same there has
to be more than lifting your fork and swallowing
substance.
I make you feel bloated. Unwanted. Used.
Not rejuvenated.
You have to rush me down with liquidized
empathy just to move your feet forward.
And I know I don't have eyes but I still
sense you are sitting at your desk with
its screen mocking you,
as you type the words
you won't fill me, you can't possibly fill me,
(you will not leave)
But disregard my names and believe
I will not stay forever,
for I labor in light, airy places because
I understand you
deplorably
regret choosing me.
Because in the end,
I am not fixed inside of your soul...
-Written 6/22/13 @ 12:15 AM
- Have been listening to this piano solo over and over again and it's called "Soul's Lament", so I thought of Lament for the title of my poem and then tying it in with the topic of food. I wanted to write something with a different perspective as well. Thanks for reading!
