You spy on me one day, as I sit in the window,
Feverishly scribbling down my woes on simple
Student paper, akin to a sorry two-year-old bawling
Over spilled milk – a mistake they in no way should have
Made. Next thing that I know, my work is crinkled
In your fists, on the floor, in the waste-paper basket,
With only derisive words for praise.

Finished, I might carefully extract the torn pages
From the sheepish nooks and crannies of the house
While you go to bed upstairs. My feet may cooperate,
They may not. It depends on your mood. All I ask
Is for some peace and quiet while I slave away –
Working for a freedom that should be freely mine.
Therefore, the nights are long, the hands ache along
With the rest of me, and I, the scribe, will dictate to
My deepest will. No apologies or flowers or gifts will
Save you now. I am done. I wash my hands of your
Degrading jests, your shouts and your asphyxiating
Power. I rid myself of you.