my life is a soup of choices,
a broth of consequence and
steaming of effect.
poached like my ideas of right.
burnt crisp like my thoughts of wrong.
I'm boiled up in a roast stew of fallacy,
chopped up guilt and crushed cloves of forgetten forethought to add reality.
layered in-between self-hating bread,
I'm like a rhetorical tomato,
or concise and crisp lettuce.
flavored with oxymoronic mayonnaise
and ironically erroneous thought.
a tossed salad of melodrama and not enough attention.
with self-defeating ranch,
I'm a self-deterministic rock.
like bitterly sweet sugar,
I swear loving words like antonymous
synonyms-
and I never read past where the sentence stops.