Going to My Room

My Room

What I appreciate about alone
is talking to myself where you can’t hear,
where I can gorge on words without a bone
to pick with anyone, for no one’s near.
My parents used to send me to my room
when I, anti-compliant, sassed them back.
They thought it fit deterrent, I assume,
which soon became my favorite briar patch.

They reared me, and I’ve now raised my own brood.
I married twice and fed each husband’s head
with words I blared. Depending on my mood,
I bored or thrilled or drove them deaf instead
of heeding. Now I have a one-room home,
and publish each opinion in a poem.

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