it's spring and green around
but inside, writing feels a chore.
a block, within myself, for caring,
thinking, feeling, "THAT" cannot be written.
emotions without ties, no leads to follow.
a flavor all its own.
you won't feel me
when you read my words
you will have some feeling,
but it will not be me.

i'm stuck between to tell or not,
torn in two directions.
raw truth; flavor; repulses the "refined".
delicacy, balance, thoughtful discretion,
are not words i would use to
describe the way i cook.
natural, pure, unprocessed.
a punch inside your mouth,
a thrash inside your belly,
a burn on top your tongue.

skepticism revolves around each dish,
fear of the unknown. strong, fragrant flavor,
draws the noses near. mouthful mystery amuck.
unsure of utensils, unsure of this potted truth.
their is always a passive audience,
too afraid of the tastes i know.
should i write aloud?
should i write just as i cook?
this is where i sit,
afraid of my own dish.