Sometimes,
I have feelings.
And sometimes,
They pour out like
A bowl of chicken noodle soup
On on a kitchen table,
When you grab the handles
And it’s still too hot.
So you panic,
Turn, and spill,
And make a mess
Of noodle letters, sauce and
Over boiled vegetables,
With an impossible rhyme scheme
Of mismatched vowels and
Consonants on your kitchen table,
Spelling nothing other than
Failure in the most basic of tasks;
Which makes you wonder,
What’s the point of this
Anyway, to begin with?
Who ever actually
Learned to spell from soup?
I sure as hell didn’t.
My words are my own.
And soup never suited me anyway.