I wear purple and/
dream of the day I can stomp/
Frank’s* face and crush him.
*Ed
(“Frank” is the name of my daughter’s eating disorder. Others might call him “Ed” — as in: “Eating Disorder” )
Crap may sometimes hit/
the fan, but I always close/
the bathroom door tight.
It’s easy to write/
thousands of whiny love poems./
Be a big baby.
OR
Just be a baby.
Yet another weekend ev’n is past;/
The week soon starts again, too fast,/
Yet we sit, still, at our keyboard,/
and wonder why we are alone, tired, bored./
Or are we truly resolute and complete?/
Do we view/
our solitude/
as victory, not defeat?/
We may nurse our whine/
with wine;/
assuage our aged fear
with beer./
But if we, with our own company, are endeared,/
then why sit we, fingers dancing, quasi-romancing, here?
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