Stains on my pink silk blouse.
They are present and permanent.
They mock me wherever I go.
Reminding me of that vegetable soup
I once enjoyed on a winter evening.

Surrealism, this is what this is.
Ugly and vile and all-encompassing.
The mind is a peculiar thing.
It is honest when drunk,
brilliant when unconscious.
Dull when awake.

Not enough.
Enough words.
I have sat
and sighed
and cried
and thought I was a fool.
And I pitied myself
and my pathetic self
and swallowed all truth.

Am I so horrible?
Are you ashamed?
Did I disappoint you?
What a big ugly stain.

Poem Rating:
Click To Rate This Poem!

Continue Rating Poems

Share This Poem