Irving S. T. garp
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Washed out. I'm washed out. Juliette waits for Romeo atop of her balcony. I, on the other hand, wait for the week to come at an end. Romance à la "William J'expire". I can't even remember when the week started. A day that started with"di", I think. I'm a house wife reduced to ashes. I'm a master of, yet a slave to the mess. I'm a queen who's sceptre is a toilet brush. I'm a dust cleaning wife. I wipe it off, and when I'm done and tired, I'll still be dusting away. When, oh when will this day end? The key twists inside the lock. My husband is home: he kisses me on the forehead and asks "How was your day darling?". My lips stretch to draw a tired smile. Washed out. I'm washed out.