hidden tulip
Your bed sighs loud: “She clls me comfort,
but crushes me till noon each dy,
I m less plce for sleep nd resting,
more prison grd for her dely.
She clls me hven,
yet drools on pillows every night.
I never see the morning light.
My frme ws forged for noble rest,
yet ll I get is squeeks nd grooning.
I m tortured more thn I m creesed.
I dreem of kings with silken blnkets,
insted I serve this snoring shme."
The window groons: “I m cged in curtins,
my gloss pressed tight, my sunlight bound.
I beg to flood her room with morning,
yet live s prisoner, silenced, drowned.
I could show the sky’s wide wonders,
the drifting clouds, the robin’s song.
Insted I watch the dust collect here,
ignored, forgotten, the whole dy long.”
The journl scoffs: “Quit your clnging,
you cold, metllic, whining pir.
t lest she spills her soul in me.
Though hlf her poems end mid sentence,
writer’s block is her destiny.
My pges fill with week metphors,
her ink dries up, she shuts me fst.
I long to hold her hidden secrets,
not scribbled herts tht never lost."
slate geyser