Washing up still in the sink,

nervous sanity on the brink.

Breakdown bearing down on me,

a heavy weight they can’t see.

Sighs and cries are inwards kept:

can’t remember, when I last slept;

restless legs all night long,

tossing turmoil, mind all wrong.

A terraced trap surrounds for years,

losing courage, learning fears.

Identity crisis imminent,

unused brain now sediment.

Do the washing, clean the floor;

when that’s finished, there’s always more:

feed the kids, walk the dog,

when that’s done, clean the bog.

Wash the windows, make them gleam,

I’m going mad, I want to scream,

but there’s just too much stuff to do,

multi-tasking by one not few.

Make the breakfast, clear the side;

demands keep coming, I want to hide.

Do the shopping, make the tea,

“if there’s time love” pamper me.

© Liola Lee 2007

This was written back in 2007 or thereabouts. Housewives are often underrated but in reality they hold the home together. I was clearly feeling a little undervalued back then. I guess we all feel like that sometimes. 

 

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