A Writer’s Plight

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I poured out my soul
I poured it into a wine glass but you wouldn’t hold the glass by its stem delicately
I poured it into a tumbler
But you left it there sitting on the table
I poured it into a martini glass but it just kept splashing out, you wouldn’t sip it slowly,  and you wouldn’t take in its vapors.
I poured out my soul
I poured it into a flute
But you kept bursting the bubbles in it
What once was sparkling,  you stripped

I poured out my soul
Like fresh blacktop concealing all your cracks
Filling all your holes
But you stepped in it, wrote your name in it, and then complained when the heat scalded your delicate flawless skin.

I poured out my soul
Like a child’s toys from a toy bin
So you would be amused, entertained, excited and in awe of my trinkets and my bells and my whistles
And you smiled for awhile
But then you looked back in the empty bin seeking more
I poured out my soul and you kicked it all over the floor

I poured out my fucking soul!!!!

And with tears in my eyes I questioned
What was wrong with it
Why it was unwanted like coal in a Christmas stocking
Why its so burdensome
Why its so heavy
Why its so colorful
Why its so invisible

When did it become so black?
Can I ever get it back?
How do you solidify fluidity? 

I poured out my soul
I closed my eyes
I stopped reflecting
I stopped thinking
I stopped rehashing
I stopped speaking
For a moment,  I even stopped breathing

I poured out my soul
Now what do you suppose we do with what’s left of it?

By:Shaun Nickens