Inner Child Poem by Dorit Tweig

We stare at her book-shelf
and pick a book that
holds a thrill.
I read her a random line
and toss the book.
Toss all of her books
far behind her back
till they pile up in perfect chaos
around us.

She turns to her cabinet
And brings out old notebooks
filled with our creation.
She reads me a random line.
And rips them all to shreds
sheet after sheet
till I am piled up
with a frantic coldness and
I harden like a fallen leaf and
I crumble into tears and
my back shivers with insult and
dismay and

We never do what I want!
She is tired of me