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Posted by MFish


Posted by MFish Posted on 07/29/2019 at 10:25PM Other See more by MFish

I ramble here,
I scramble there,
Words are spewed
No matter the size,
Nor of the care,
They fall to paper
Like dust to coat.
Be they near
Or just remote.
The only idiocy
Is what I write,
That is read by thee.
Like it, I hope,
Care you must
If these words
Are just the output,
Of a minds rust,
That says nothing,
Just nothing.

Why must I be the way I am?
Feeling guilt about the days,
when I worked and didn't praise
everything you did at home,
taking care of our children, almost alone.
Now we are here, your mind is spent,
no doing the "books" or cooking now.
Unable to function tasks so simple,
It's "My turn," I've said so many times
"to take care of you" as you did I.

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