She sat in her small chair
while the pair of glasses
with the big desk
scribbled notes.
Not heart words,
though she tried to show him,
tried to take him with her
to her blue-green world.
All he could create
was black marking on a page.
Not her page,
her world.
So she simply decided
to stop speaking,
fearing he would scribble more
plastic words
trying to make sensible something
nameless
something that floated her away
in the night.
2 comments
That’s a beautiful poem ~
Thanks Persephone. I wrote when they made me see a psychiatrist the year I attempted suicide. I remember thinking how the questions he asked seemed millions of miles away from the things i felt and thought. thanks for reading it.