Ok, I know it has been a while since I last posted, so here is a recent poem. It's not what you think it is about. I have been writing poetry like this lately, so I am talking about something completely different in this poem. I'll save the title for last. You won't understand it until I tell you. Enjoy!

Psychotic,
Anorexic,
Bulimic.
So ignore the food
Or just throw it up,
Spit it out.
Move about in your cubicle,
Alone, day after day
In that box of glass that’s
Vulnerable to shattering and
Breaking into pieces with
People looking in.
You’re cowering in the corner
Freezing but unaware of the cold around you.
Secluded from everyone
No exterior contact
But seeing everyone see you,
See you defenseless,
Unable to live outside your space of glass
Same people, same colors, same sounds.
“Same [edited by moderator] , different day,”
Says the great Stephen King.
The lines on your body never change.
Jagged, red, no one asks how they got there.
Some storied may have been started
And passed along,
But no one seems to care.
You’re in your own utopia,
Where it’s all about you, unmindful of the outside
Oblivious to the eyes that watch you
Or the mouths that speak of you.

So there it is, folks. This poem is called "Ode to Cat Food." Cat food is my fish.... Critique is much welcomed!
~Lynn