In a waiting room

This feeling I get

Every time I send

A couple of lines

over to you

And you leave me hanging

Dry

Without the least acknowledgement

or reply

Is like being left standing

Constantly in a waiting room

Of a dentist clinic,

Where I am certain

I’ll receive pain

But it is exacerbated

By the unnecessarily

Elongated wait.

My heart is racing

Hardly fitting in my chest

I feel the cracks as they form

I feel the lack of air

I feel the sweat profusing

From every pore

of my overly stressed body

I feel the exhaustion

crawling up on me.

A poem is a thing

You write from the heart

and you keep hurting mine

As you pay me with disdain

And I’m getting fed up

With this constant strain

I know I should move on

I know I’ve had enough

So I’m letting you know

This is my last poem

You’ll ever receive.

Oh, one more thing

I didn’t want to miss

the last chance to tell

You to f- off

This is us, we’re done.

Publicado por Anabel

Leo mucho. Escribo un poco. I read a lot. A write some.

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