the plate of chicken stands before a man of dignity.
will his ego get in the way of dinner?
of course.
as a women i already painted the picture to the clearest extent beforehand.
he won't cry like a girl.
he won't sob like the broken hearted.
he sits there with his striking eyes, picturing a raging fire.
no emotions pour out, nothing but nothingness.
the hard exterior man, the old fashioned man.
the chicken is left cold.
the stares he pierces sees my body bare.
the fragile kind of body i once had.
i ate my chicken, within me left no despair.
the egotistical man with self-loathing lips stands up to leave the table, despite the unforgettable glare.
YOU ARE READING
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Poetry'baby come on over, come on over to my side well i may not live past twenty one, but, what a way to die' the pleasure seekers
