Tiny Tantrum

January 15, 2018

She looked at me through bloodshot eyes.

She asks Why? Why now?

Her lip trembled, her plea cut short by a strangled sob

She had been like this for the last thirty minutes.

My patience was worn to a sheer shade of blue,

One which rivaled the rapidly darkening sky.

She claimed it impossible,

Her impassioned wails grew louder

I walked away after a while

Her high pitched voice stripped me to my last nerve

The moon soon became a spectator

The stars were its entourage

Crickets chimed in, throwing insults and retorts

And all of that was more peaceful than being in her room

I did everything right,

Plugged in her nightlight, gave her milk

Read her her favorite story

I suppose the only lullaby with any effect

Was her soaked weeping.

I hate it when a kid cries themselves to sleep,

But my sleeves were empty of tricks,

My purse had been purged of its sweets,

Little Bridget, you were a handful.

Something wrong with this poem?

Replies are closed for this poem.

See what makes your poem unique — its voice, energy, themes, and the literary traditions it draws from.

Comments (0)

No comments yet. Be the first to share your thoughts.