I'm out of spoons There's not much I can do They wash the dishes when I go to sleep And even then there's no guarantee I panic and paw throughout my kitchen Desperate for even a tiny smidgen I open my drawers to nothing inside My cabinets are bare, nowhere to hide So I lash out in frustration I lay down in my depression Does my knowing of the dishwasher Make me a lazy, excuse-ridden imposter? I brood over how some smart Alec jerk Might say, "Why not just use a fork?" I'd tell them it's not about the utensil, per se It's about the lack of vitality And maybe it's a little unfair To see their intentions as impure I'm completely out of spoons and my mind Will jump to the worst possible surmise I sit alone in my silence Dueling with internal violence I close my eyes tighter with each clock tick And convince myself I'll wake up to a cleaner sink
Thank you so much for reading In the Clouds! This is a personal outlet I created to nurture my own creativity and to connect with other artsy people out in the world.
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Those spoons are off for other adventures! Nice one, Amy!