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Sophia Nov 15
the noodles are elegant, lovely and fair,
i see now there's a reason
why you're called angel hair.
buttery smooth, and golden light reflection
it's strikingly radiant
the epitome of perfection.

the sauce is as red as my cheeks
when one is deeply in love,
far higher than a mountain peak.
look, it flies in the saucepan
alluring is not a word to describe,
but truly, it's so hot, it needs a fan.

the meatballs are spheres of joy
what geometry could calculate its area?
though it ignores me, i tell it to not play coy.
how lovely the ringing sounds of sizzles,
light my ear with fireworks unheard,
oh, how my feelings are a shizzling!

oh spaghetti, my love, my joy, my life,
it's unnatural to see my tears fall on the plate.
you are my happiness, my leftover bowl of strife.
i mourn when there is none left
for breakfast in the morning,
but i dream of you when i go to bed.
Alfa Oct 22
Warm sauce
as hot as my blood
splattered all over the floor.

Spit out,
puked up,
you slammed my head on the floor.

Mop up or eat it.
You used my mopped head to clean it.

Ever since then, I couldn't eat spaghetti again.
Chris Neilson Jul 31
Producing the perfect poetic piece
about love, war and peace
is like knitting spaghetti
or collecting confetti
body and soul exploration
becomes a disconnection
when the ink runs dry
and we don't know why
we recall journeys and roads
in scatalogical awkward odes
prose seems more dead than alive
forced rhymes we may contrive
a bittersweet symphonic idea
can make a tragedy of King Lear
growing old but growing up never
closing in on the end of our tether
making no sense of man or beast
once youthful foreheads creased
in and out of love with our craft
a poem's reception woefully understaffed
brain cells performing disappearing acts
reality unglued not sticking to facts
you, the earth, the universe
fighting to find the ideal verse
bad days bring an unwanted stigma
when the art of poetry becomes an enigma
It's a fine art! ☺
She told me that she never had real spaghetti before.
Of course she's had spaghetti before but not in the sense that made it worthwhile.
When I asked why she replied that it didn't feel real.
That in a sense it was pasta.
She always broke the noodles when she made it.
She developed a fear that everything would boil over and catch fire.
That part of the noodles would be too crunchy.
All of it would never fit in the ***.
Her mother always broke the noodles so it just became habit.
In the same breath.
She told me at least once,
That she'd like to twirl the noodles around the fork.
The complete taste and feel of what makes it spaghetti.
The cheese blending into the sauce.
The big ball of noodles just wrapping around the fork waiting to be bit.
When I asked about the meatballs she laughed,
She was vegetarian
Kamini May 14
I am not here now.
Not available,
Absent. Not present.

Hijacked,
Held hostage,
******* in a tangled web
Of locks and chains.

Trapped,
Houdini like,
In a cage and thrown
Into the turbulent waters
Of my shark infested mind.

****** in by a
Whirlpool of stories,
My thoughts spin
Epic myths,
Fantastical tales,
Dark fantasies and
Cheap thrillers.

Each teasing,
taunting and
goading me
To disconnect,
Shutdown,
To flee from
This moment.

This tender,
Aching moment.
This unashamed longing,
Drenched in the desire
To be penetrated by
Your presence,
To free fall into
The lap of the Beloved.

But you, like me,
Are not here now,
Not available,
Absent. Not present.
Mari Feb 27
make me smile
like huh yeah
   a smile forms in corners of-

  impromptu. You-
we say as
the self is
(re:)discovered
in the
quiet glow
of a passion
     pulsing.  
I know you saw it-
                      the flicker
fade
    the key in the ignition
we're off
             again.
We drive into the sea to think
   this
       blissful
          submission
if only
in the
heat of-
  life constantly
                overwhelms
me.
  Spaghetti.
dog rolls on
          sofa
Life is
      the desire to dance
  and doing it.
Vale Luna Jan 13
My brain is a bowl of spaghetti
I can be turned with a greedy hand
And a rusty fork
Eating my thoughts
From an unwashed container

Please stop eating.

I don’t think I can afford
To lose another fork-full
    another strand of memory
Let alone
Be mixed up
With the other ingredients
Poured into my skull

It seems I’m getting sloppy.

Refills are impossible
Because the more I try to stuff inside
The more the contents overflow
And the threads of words
Come spilling out
When I beg them not to

Well.

I hate contradicting myself
But without anyone eating
And without room for refills
The nutrients inside
Will begin to rot
And disintegrate
Into nothing but molded mulch
So everything I try to retain
Will be useless
    and inedible

The filth accumulates.

Insanity will be the smell of my mind
It will control my every action
A single whiff
Strong enough
To lower the IQ of a genius

I’m losing myself.

I’d try to explain it
In understandable terms
But it seems the correct words
Were lost
    when I was bitten into
And scattered
    when I overflowed

This is what I tried to describe before:

My head is a box of noodles
I can be dented with a pinky finger
And a dull knife
Tasting my dreams
From a…
        Hm.
    Sorry.
What were we talking about?
no forks, no spoons
just plastic knives.
how can I eat this
spaghetti on my
lunch break?

all of a sudden,
it just seems like
a good day to go
out and get
Chicago style hot dogs
instead

why do we go through the headaches
to punch in and out of time clocks for
people who rob us of our time from
our families and can’t even provide
paper towels to dry our hands or
forks and spoons to eat our sad,
pathetic spaghetti lunches?

I guess everyone needs to
reach out and touch pure evil
just to live and support and
get by every once in a while
Donielle Apr 2017
My life's shoelaces are always a little loose.
At any moment I could come undone
and trip over my own two feet.
Fall headlong
with my hands tied behind my back
with the ropes of yesterday,
whose knots are tangled and frayed
like my nerves.
I clench my fists
like ***** of fire could escape them
to keep me straight,
but I feel my feet become boulders
and it becomes harder to lift them
with my spaghetti legs.
The weight in my mind
sandwiches my heart between
it and the rocks
and I eyeball the river and think
wouldn't it be so easy?
James McSweats Mar 2017
My belly is filled with the sweet spaghetti
Helps to releive you of your regretti.
Eat spaghetti when you are sore
Its tomato sauce will fill your core.
When you are have woes or filled with sorrow
Spaghetti will carry you to tomorrow.
An amazing euphoric meal
So good you will have to kneel.
The waiter brings me a second bowl
I need more to feel whole.
the bowl arrives but alas,
the garlic bread seems to have passed.
The garlic bread is an essential piece
give to me to maintain the peace!
I wake up in a holding cell
with blood on my hands
it seems I killed all the mans.
I'm given life without parole
seems ill be spending time in the hole.
But I have no regretti
for I did it all for the spaghetti.
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