How Painful It Is, To Not Write

My life is measured out

In washing machine tings.

Sorting socks and stringy pants and orgies

Of cheap black nylon tights.

My life is measured out,

In meals cooked and eaten and

Not washed up by anyone

But me, because: food is disgusting.

I am awake,

For sixteen hours each day. Sometimes

More, because I listen in the night,

For babies long turned to teens.

My work is dull. And

I do it, to pay

The mortgage that never gets smaller.

My life is measured out

Talking to my mum on the phone,

Who’s a widow

Though none of us believe in this yet.

My husband loves me.

My daughters love me.

My friends and my family and my animals love me.

(I love them)

And yet I measure my life out.

And out.

To have something else to blame.

Author: mrscarlielee

Mother. Writer. Wearer of frocks with wellies. Loves Dancing, Frivolity and Good Books. Tweet @MrsCarlieLee

One thought on “How Painful It Is, To Not Write”

To have my latest posts sent to your inbox, please press the 'follow' button on the top right. Thank you!

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.