scraping salsa off a festive snowman infested paper plate
I asked myself about the meaning of life

my last tortilla chip cracked under the pressure of my thoughts
and I was left with salty finger tips and a half empty stomach

I guess when you’re living in personalized, small-sized pizza
of a school the food is never filling and questions are never answered

No matter how many times I tell myself I know what I’m doing,
I wake up every morning just as lost at the day before

cracking my dreams like chips, bitter as the salt on my finger tips,
I’ve become a half empty stomach impossible to fill

one of these days I’ll be a home-cooked meal—
mashed potatoes salted just right,

sweet biscuits that crumble, never crack—
iced tea with the taste of sugar, just enough to savor,

I swear I could go on forever about my idealized platter
that one day I will feast on in my confident contentment.