I feel the weight of the whale on my plate
My consciousness so filling that I couldn't eat another bite
Yet even overloaded, my lack of progress leaves me empty
To the conflicting advice I say to you mother and aunt
To be kind to myself is to live on an empty soul
To bite the bullet is to push fingers to the back of my throat
How discomforting, how horrible to live as starved or emotionally bulimic
And how confusing, how discouraging to hear there's no right answer
How wonderfully terrible to find that happiness is a decision, not a goal
That we would live sated by our own reasoning
Ignoring the soup for our soul boiling on a back burner
Waiting til it's plated by a crisis
Desperately aware of your shortcomings and missed opportunities
And so it festers, it simmers; a once watery soup turned to burnt caramel
Not enough soaking in the world to wash it from your mind
You can borrow the scouring powder from your mother but it's no use
The sticky sweet residue of failure cooks into your other plans
So you are forced into a decision
Scrub until the surface shines with the scratches of many tic-tac-toes
Beg your aunt to cover your mistake with seasons and spices
Or just get a new fucking pan
June 8th 2021
YOU ARE READING
The Book of Learning
PoetryShe's a working progress. - Part II: are you ready? you're here. Second collection of vent(?) poetry. Sometimes posts on other sites as @alessandro Cover created with stock photos and Snapseed
