Furcorn Finds Out Santa Isn't Real and Other Misfortunes

Chew and Swallow

Food, the fuel of life I would say.

No one truly NEEDS it. 

A pointless want that only brings hate.

Binge yourself and see where it leads you.

Chew and Swallow.

The motto of this tangent.

Eat the cockroach on the floor and see if it's worth it.

on my hands and knees.

I open my mouth.

Prepare for the ego death.

"I don't see the point, you are fine."

"Don't panic" speaks up another voice

"Quit being silent"

"What happens, happens," I spoke. Staring in the mirror is the face I never could stand. 

"I love you!" 

"Thank you!" 

Being someone who prepares the food for the others is no easy task. I presume if it were, other would've done it instead of me. 

I have passions too you know! I just want to make music! Like the one who hated me once did.

"Why, you sport the chef's hat well, Congle! If only I could pull it off!"

"A little burnt don't you think?"

"I can't trust what you produced for us today."

All background noise to support the melody of my grief.

I could never taste. It's a mystery to me how others find a lust in what I shove in a pan.

Eggs

Flour

Vanilla extract

Milk

Sugar

HIV positive blood

Bake at 350 for 30 minutes and serve immediately to burn their flesh.

I've always hated it. 

Hated the others.

Hated you.

But nevertheless, they Chew and Swallow.

I sing.

I sing for the getting myself to wake up everyday.

I sing for death.

I play for the bones in my body.

I play for the taste to never come to senses.

I bang on the congas. 

I bang on the congas that were a gift from someone I never learned the name of.

I'm just a spirit that refuses to except it.

Living.

A curse from the Gods but a blessing from the demons.

I always connected with what I couldn't have.

I bid farewell to my innocence with my final dish.

I always cared for the worms and the death beneath me.

I try to avoid throwing things out.

I use my dryer lint as firestarters.

If I see paper clips, I'll take them with me to use.

I use old news as paper mache.

If I see a rotting corpse, I use it in my dishes.

Ah, inspiration!

The last supper. 

I sit all my friends down.

Friends?

I sit the monsters down.

"So, what have you prepared for us?" The blue one speaks

"I'm sure it's going to be wonderful!" The feathered one speaks

"Would you care to join us for a song afterwards?" The one covered in rocks speaks

"A meal fit for the Gods!"

One is missing

"Where could they be?"

"Only Galvana knows."

"Dig in!" The words left me

Chew and Swallow 

Chew the one you miss

Swallow the one you forgot

Spit your lies and fuel my ego.