Dinnertime

There is a poem about unhappiness

That is written so beautifully

That the author who penned it

Knew she would never scrawl

Something like it ever again

And so she got up,

Put a gun into her mouth,

And clicked

Only to find that she had

Picked up a water gun instead

That shot a steady stream

That rebounded against her flesh

And sprayed little droplets

Onto the page in front of her

Drowning the words,

The unhappy words,

The beautiful words,

In a small, black puddle

That could swallow

A whole world

Of creation

And destruction

So long as she

Kept her mouth open

Letting the air come in

And out

Without noticing it

And the gun kept vomiting

Its inside’s out

Inside her outside lips

While she kept

Drinking without drinking

From a liquid that could never

Quite sate her thirst

During a meal that was never quite

Finished