Another Night in the City

poem about a woman with a heavy burden

It is always cold

after you have done the deed,

as if mother nature even knows, too

that you are a "bad" person.

The sheets are always in disarray;

the man is always exhausted

and the woman is always silent.

And as she gets up, goes to

wash her sins away in front of the mirror,

she is never really sure

if she is still proud of herself anymore.

Author's Note

let me know what you think:) I haven't posted on here in years, and haven't written poetry seriously in quite some time either.