The Room is Red when we argue

I woke up on a lousy Tuesday morning,
Waiting to be apprenticed to some hideous misjudgment,
The car ran off with its moneyed roof.
I came upon new music, meanwhile,
All of it played like old broken records,
All of it played for hours, uninterrupted
Who would come between us on this blue day?
I know too much, my hands pine over meager things
I hate that she exists still.
Well I hate him! You’re incurable and robbed of a million epiphanies,
Where is your intellect? Your wits are milked!
I’m not I anymore, please let me breathe.
The couch is still as brown as before,
Our bed is grey yet, can we go back to sleep?
Your chronic dejection is ridding you of wisdom.
We mustn’t fight any longer, you bore me.
So I blinded the binds and replaced the blue curtains,
Sent them all to the laundry.
On that quiet Tuesday morning we sat beside our telephones,
They rang and rang, they rang for hours.

Art: Sally Smart, The craftiest of eyes (borrowed dress), 1994

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2 Replies to “The Room is Red when we argue”

    1. How are you teaching people how to write poetry? Poetry isn’t supposed to be perfect. You can’t really put judgment towards someone’s pain and how they choose to express it.

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