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?
when, 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 shared it with him.