Each morning as I brush my teeth I crack open my skull and allow the world to gorge on my brain.
I lay my thoughts on a table and watch as people dawning forks and knives pick through the vittles of my mind.
They dive in with the blind enthusiasm of a fat man near lunch time passing a McDonalds,
With no care to the actual contents of their mouths just the meaningless relief of being full again.
And each day they devour my ideas with the entitled right a kid feels towards cake on his birthday,
Not grateful just sure that by being born he deserves this.
And the soup Nazi in me wonders,
Maybe if they crawled to me in defeat, an anorexic succumbing to the lure of chocolate,
Or with genuine interest, a food critic sampling the gourmet fare,
I would be happy…
Or feel a little less used.
I mean most days I just want to feed myself and I don’t know how my brain turned into a free soup kitchen.
And I guess I just have to choose whether or not to hand my ideas out like bagged lunches or can them up with preserves.
But I cannot decide because it doesn’t make sense.
They resent the hand that feeds them,
But feel robbed of human rights if denied a meal.
And no one really cares about the cook anyway.
Yet each morning I brush my teeth and crack open my skull, wondering if today it will make me feel a little more full.