Soup

She sat in her darkened kitchen on her old chair 

reflecting on what went wrong?

why did she always feel so incredibly lonely?

and why did he walk around her house like a Lion

when she knew she was the true Lion 

and he was the pussy 

she knew she'd be noticed for her creative mind

even though he would drum it into her every day 

that the fame was meant for him

she knew the truth, but she kept quiet

how must it feel to be so damn egotistic?

not to see talent in anything other than a mirror?

she was the talent 

she was the real passion 

the fire in the home 

the fire in the pen 

and the fire in her little black book of scribbles 

that she kept safe and sound

under her mattress

and never could share with the world

despite her disappointment

and lack of enthusiasm for life

she still stirred the fresh soup

she made, every evening

and still, she shared it with him.