sorrow soup

 

Everything goes fine, fine, fine.

And there it comes, an ugly day

a spiteful day,

a day of thorny words,

of jagged silences,

punching your eyes,

crunching your tongue,

pulling your shoulders

down.

And your legs

go heavy and you just sit, sit, sit,

and lay, lay, lay, lay down

in anger, in fear

of not being yourself

or anyone anymore,

floating in a sorrow soup

salted with incomplete ideas,

peppered with grains of despair,

warmed up in the coals

of incorrect timing,

of unfortunate spaces,

of unplanned outbursts,

boiling up and spilling,

to soften the dry twigs

of you fragile will.




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