Most women are cooks But a man who cooks Is a chef She cooks over and over To feed the masses

I wallow in my sadness As it pools up It has not swallowed me Who floats above its surface This surface

He says I could never Get away with murder For I leave Pieces of me everywhere

My objective is selfish Not to share or be heard To get it out and move on No one seems to hear my pain No one seems to feel my pain

How can I write how I feel When what I feel is nothing? How can I tell you what I need, What is wrong? When what is wrong

The more you treat me like a nag The more I become one I’m sorry if I micromanage Your clean clothes Your hot meals

If I could paint a man Eyes so dark they shine Brooding and stormy Til the smile breaks through If I could paint a man

If I was in a beauty pageant My talent would be 'Lefty who writes upside-down’ Beside the contestant Who burps her ABC’s

I look away Afraid to see Flicker of nerves In their eye A clench