The slammed door


The rough wood of the slammed door

was tearing up my skin

Like your one-day-beard

before had scratched my chin


You wouldn’t let me in

and the door fell

out of its rusty joints


There was a whistling breeze


Then I saw

there was no one in

at all

just a table with a razor bowl

and a rusty razor


Comments on: "The slammed door" (6)

  1. belfastdavid said:

    This is very sad I think.

    Why is it that we write more poems about lost love do you think?
    Not just you and I but poets in general.
    Is there a need for angst tp provoke a poem?


    • It is easier to write about that for some reason. And it is the most awfull thing for most? And it is romantic in a way, the loss, the emotions, the drama. And universal. Like dead.

      Once you have had a lost love, you know the deep of that pain.
      This one was a door I saw in my mind, old wood, you know, and rust and a table with just those items. It was a sort of vision, a scene, something.
      Explaining poetry is difficult. And I am a beginner looking for a way 🙂 So perhaps you better tell me the answer 🙂

      • belfastdavid said:

        Ah, I haven’t got an answer Ina 🙂

        It was just that your poem got me thinking about it.
        I shall continue to ponder as I go wander through the supermarket!! 🙂


        • lol Don’t forget to ask people how they are doing 🙂 ( well you know, like in your poem)

  2. Hello Ina,
    I enjoyed reading your poem. 🙂

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