#cookie
the first time she texted me
we talked about how we eat our oreos
it's funny how something unimportant
suddenly becomes your entire world
when the right person says it
how a sandwich cookie
can become the secret to life itself
today i ate oreos
and i thought of her
i ate them how she does
it's the right way
i can't believe i ever thought otherwise
May 14
May 14, 2026 at 12:44 PM UTC
he is trying to find a way to reach for me
without getting his hands messy.
he offers me a Cookie;
a store-bought, plastic-wrapped gesture,
shelf-stable and engineered to last
without ever actually being fresh.
he asks me about the places i’ve eaten,
lowballing the conversation
like he’s afraid that if we talk about the hunger,
we’ll both realize he’s brought an empty plate.
for the hundredth time, he asks for my schedule.
it’s a safe rhythm, a ticking clock
that keeps him from having to say anything real.
he’s fumbling, and he knows it—
tripping over the Unsalted ******* of his own words.
it’s the "fine" answer to "how was your day,"
the dry, flavorless thing you eat
when you’re too sick to handle the truth,
or too afraid of the spice of a real choice.
he’s standing in the room like Cotton Candy—
huge, bright, and spinning gold.
from a distance, he looks like a feast,
a sugary promise of something sweet.
but the second i try to take a bite,
the second i lean in for the substance,
he dissolves into pink air and hot breath.
a fifteen-minute duet plot that vanishes on the tongue,
leaving me with nothing but a sticky residue
and the realization that i want substance.
he’s playing it safe because he can’t handle the weight.
he sees the legal pad in my lap
and the gavel waiting in my hand,
and he decides that the "nothing left"
is easier to offer than the "too much."
i gave him the floor.
i asked for the Filibuster, for the messy,
hour-long rambling of a boy who refuses to let the bill die.
i wanted the frantic syllables, the desperate "don't leave,"
the loud, jagged truth that keeps the house on fire.
but he wouldn't take the time i gave him.
he just checked the clock and asked me
what my monday looks like.
but i am a Blueberry Muffin left on the counter,
the sugar-crust waiting for a hand
that actually wants to feel the heat.
but i am an Orange.
i am full of juice and sunlight and a brilliant, messy confession.
i don't need a snack that won't spoil;
i need someone who isn't afraid to get their fingers sticky.
so keep your store-bought cookies.
stay on the shelf where it’s safe.
i’m done trying to find a meal
in a man who is made of nothing but sugar-crust
Apr 29
Apr 29, 2026 at 9:02 PM UTC
the silence in the senate is
heavier than the noise in the house, 🥭.
up here, the stakes are settled,
the ballots are cast, and i’m left
watching the clock.
it’s a strange vantage point—
knowing you’re fighting for your life
in a room where the air is already stale.
you’re down there trying to qualify
while the very person you’re standing with is
the reason the room is laughing behind your back.
you’re debating for a seat you might win,
but you’re losing the floor
every time you check your phone.
meanwhile, 🏆 is sitting three desks away,
and the "solvency" we both earned feels
like a hollow trophy.
i see the way he leans into his legal pad—
not to flow a round, but to keep himself from tipping over.
i see the cracks in his armor.
there's a frequency 🏆's vibrating on that
no one else in this chamber can hear.
i see the mental health crisis he’s labeling as "fatigue,"
and because i’m a girl who stays true to the flow,
i have to say something.
i’m looking at his hands.
they aren't "sticky" with someone else's sugar;
they’re just shaking when the timer isn’t even running.
it’s the ultimate irony of the 80-week math.
i’ve been waiting for you to be the crusader,
and now i’m the one who has to stand up
and see the boy who’s falling apart.
not because i want his heart on a ballot,
but because i’m a girl who finishes the round,
and the round isn't over until everyone is accounted for.
And in my chamber, we look out for each other.
i’m going to say something to him.
i’m going to break the clinical silence of the senate
because my integrity isn't a tactic—
it’s the only gavel i have left.
i’ll be the one to ask the question
no one else is brave enough to label,
while you’re down in the house,
too busy defending a "maybe" to notice
that the girl you first believed in
has already moved on to a higher chamber.
if this is your last shot, 🥭, make it count.
if you want to win the house, win it.
you should.
but don’t look up at the senate and expect
to see a girl waiting with a consolation prize.
i’m not a "safety school" for
when the house adjourns and you realize
the cookie was never worth the hunger.
i’m the girl who qualified.
i’m the girl who sees the truth
you’re too scared to voice.
i’m busy being the person you were
on November 2nd—the one who
knows how to hold the door open
for someone who’s lost their way.
Mar 29
Mar 29, 2026 at 11:03 PM UTC
the ballot is back,
and for the first time,
it’s not a "no-decision."
it’s a box I didn’t
know how to carry,
but somehow,
we’re moving trophies together.
🏆 leans against the wall,
calling her what she is—
a district-wide punchline,
a "cookie" that’s been sampled by
every boy with a ballot and
a lack of taste
"You can just say she’s a whore,"
and for a second,
the clinical walls of this chamber feel
like they’re finally cracking.
🏆 sees the joke for the punchline it is, while
🥭 is out there
buying a boutonniere for a girl who
treats a **** salute like a casual Friday.
🏆 doesn’t hide behind the word "obligation."
he hides behind apathy and
teasing until i’m
just a girl apologizing for not carrying
the weight—not realizing he’s been
trying to carry it for me all along.
i’m standing in the middle of the floor, and I’ve lost my flow
i thought i wanted the orange from
the boy with sticky fingers who chose the *****
but now I’m looking at the boy with the legal pad who’s
too terrified to choose anything at all.
🏆 isn’t a placeholder I’m using;
he’s just a no-decision that refuses to resolve
he sits at the judges' table and
calls her a ***** with one breath,
then stares at his flow with the next—
too paralyzed by his own framework
to actually sign the ballot.
one is loyal to a mistake,
and the other is loyal to a legal pad
it’s a double-loss, and I’m the only one
left standing on the flow.
🏆 has his own "shoulds" sitting at home.
a girlfriend who is a line on a legal pad,
a pro-con list that feels like
a cross-examination I didn't ask to join.
he says it’s platonic, but in this league,
we know that every word is a tactic
until the final round.
🏆’s weighing impacts to see who gives him
more speaker points, but I’m not
a round to be won-
i’m the girl who held him when he cried
because i was the only one standing here-
now he sees that ballot as a debt,
and he's checking how much prep he has left.
i’m looking at 🥭 and seeing
the "obligation,"
the "maybe,"
the girl who is a snack the whole district has sampled
—and I feel gross.
i don’t even need to say the word,
because 🏆 already said it for me
it’s a strange kind of whiplash—
hearing him call her that with
so much certainty, only to watch him hesitate
over a three-month-old letter.
like he thinks that if he just ruins her,
i'll have nowhere to run but him.
meanwhile, the boy I actually want
stays busy upholding a contract
with a girl who is nothing but
bad evidence,
choosing a six-month-old word
over the person standing right in front of him.
Mar 24
Mar 24, 2026 at 6:02 PM UTC
the timer is still ticking, but the round is getting messy.
you say you’re “circuit-exhausted,”
like a bad piece of evidence
you're trying to strike,
yet you keep extending the round
if the girl is a punchline
and her friends treat your dignity
like a disposable sketchpad,
then the solvency created by that
“first date” is zero.
you’re trading a girl who
stands in the chamber
waiting for you with an orange
and a couple bad jokes for
a girl who draws you in a maid outfit
and thinks it’s a valid rebuttal
how do you walk into a ballroom with
a girl who treats your dignity like
a surrealist sketchpad?
you cling to this "obligation"
like a shield, but the shield is
covered in ink that isn't yours.
you’re standing in the chamber,
choosing a girl who validates
hate speech and your own humiliation,
while still hesitating to look at me.
Weigh the impacts:
On one side, the risk of hurting a girl who
treats a **** salute like a punchline—
a girl 🏆 already called out as a district-wide turn.
On the other, the certainty of losing me.
you’re so fixated on the link of "obligation"
that you’ve missed the impact-turn:
i won’t be the safety school you fall back on
when the "cookie" tastes like
another man’s cologne and
the drawings get too weird.
🏆 might be stuck in his own legal-pad purgatory,
but at least he knows how to label the evidence.
you?
you’re still holding the orange,
but you’re refusing to sign the ballot because
you’re too busy staring at her cookie.
Mar 24
Mar 24, 2026 at 6:12 PM UTC
sometimes fast
other times slow
usually rough
sometimes soft
cracking-breaking-falling
many think not
time speaks for itself
what cookie is next?
Feb 11
Feb 11, 2026 at 6:00 PM UTC
In shadows deep where echoes plead,
A figure stands, a heart in need,
With hands outstretched, eyes wide with dream,
They whisper wishes, a glimmering scheme.
“Just one more favor, just one small grace,”
Yet each request a deeper space,
A gaping void that swallows whole,
The joy of giving, the burden of soul.
You hand them kindness, a fragile gift,
But soon they’re asking, their spirits adrift,
“A little more time, a bit more care,”
And what once was warmth now hangs in the air.
Like tides that rise with relentless force,
Their cravings surge, a shifting course,
When you relent, the sweetness wanes,
And gratitude turns to bitter chains.
You feed the hunger, though hollow it seems,
Each promise broken, like shattered dreams,
For every cookie, a world in demand,
Yet they stand ungrateful, their heart unplanned.
A dance of despair, a symphony bleak,
To watch them twist, a master of speak,
In silence you suffer, your spirit worn thin,
For love becomes labor, while they never begin.
Should you deny the latest plea,
Watch wrath unfurl, like stormy sea,
Their words cut sharp with venomous threads,
What once was dear turns to dread.
And in that moment, a clarity forms,
To see the trust in a tempest of storms,
Yet still you hesitate, for fear grips your heart,
To sever that bond feels like tearing apart.
But the darkness deepens with each passing day,
A cycle of sorrow, a twisted ballet,
You long for solace, for peace of your mind,
Yet feel the chains, the ties that bind.
So ponder this tale of give and demand,
Of sacrifices made upon shifting sand,
For in the dance of desire and need,
Remember, dear heart, that you too must lead.
To guard your spirit, to rise and defend,
For love, yes, it matters, but it must not end,
In shadows where they take, and never repay,
Sometimes stepping back is the only way.
Let not the asking, relentless and cold,
Leave you hollow, a story retold,
In kindness find strength, in wisdom your ground,
For those who take without thought must not hold you bound.
Nov 13, 2025
Nov 13, 2025 at 1:19 PM UTC
Freshly baked
Warm
Soft
The smell of strawberries
Delicate
Fragile
Tastes so sweet
Makes you smile
As you take a bite
Of that nicely done
Heart
Feb 15, 2022
Feb 15, 2022 at 10:59 PM UTC
My best-ever fortune cookie contained a variant
of Feynman’s maxim:
“The work will teach you how to do it.”
<|>
*not yet noon on New Year’s Day,
the new words search begins croakingly,
then stumble upon a philosophical notional,
celebrating messy processes, equating to outcome,
robbing me of my lazy-all-in-NY Day-no-work-ethics
many a-poem writ, more half-baked, on shelf resting,
but the pointillist theoretical, paint by point, insists:
a clean year is a clean canvas deserving, so wade
in the water of frozen creeks silencing gurgles,
catch and release, a natural new work now!
an admonishment most personal, for the
production of poems has dimmed, excuses,
plentiful but it seemed my harshest critic, MM&I,^
never provide an editor’s sign off, these pieces of me,
pass their date of expiration, & will then, my own passing*
***the work teaches how
but never guaranteeing good enough***
1/1/22 4:46PM
^Me, Myself, & I
Jan 4, 2022
Jan 4, 2022 at 12:57 PM UTC
I was told I didn’t need to know the Ingredients
For making a child with a heart of Gold
That they were born holding a Medal
Which said they owned everything and All
Of it was because they had convictional Purpose
The doctor would cry and bring a rose Flour
To thank the mother for Baking
An excellent batch of babies, Soda
Would be poured in champagne glasses, Salt
Sprinkled a top its head to spread like Butter
The flavours of intellect and it also Softened
The hearts of others around; old wounds Granulated
Smelled like caramelizing Sugar
Inside the room, the bodies Packed
Together to peer at the Brown
Strings of hair atop the child, who’s Sugar
-like shrieks of life broke open the Egg
Of love and made it taste like Vanilla
Its tears looked the most Semisweet
A dripping fountain of Chocolate
Fondue, be careful not to Chip
The teeth when it grows, it will grow Coarsely
Then, like jagged pebbles Chopped
With a dull knife; finally, assemble the Nuts
And bolts tight because this will hurt ,if
Not properly done, or simply toss away if the kid wasn’t desired
Oct 20, 2021
Oct 20, 2021 at 7:37 PM UTC
Tip.. Tap..
Children's shoes against the
Hardwood floors
Giggles in the air
Cookies in a jar
Tip.. Tap..
A child climbing a shelf
To reach the top
Only to fall
Leaving the cookies for the night
May 4, 2021
May 4, 2021 at 9:48 AM UTC
I devoured the last cookie
It submitted to my tongue so quickly
Delicious and soft destruction sweetie
Yet there is no shame, I am powerlessly coy
Bonded to my water-retention joy
Wait until your stare can see
My new lace ******* and underneath
Nov 17, 2020
Nov 17, 2020 at 11:33 PM UTC
hold on to your opinion,
fight for your vote,
free yourself from self imprisonment,
imprison yourself in selfless things
just dont become selfish
swim with the tide
but dive where the crowd does not
Sleep when the mind wants you to
and live when the timing seems right
Sep 4, 2020
Sep 4, 2020 at 2:22 PM UTC
I focus
so much on
that tiny piece of
paper that comes in
every little cookie
And when I don't
Get that little piece of paper
My day is ruined and
nothing seems to matter anymore
Why do I rely on such a tiny piece of paper?
Generalized for the masses
To give me something to look forward to.
This means nothing
But it meant something in a moment,
and it could have meant something so
much more
If it were in the cookie.
Apr 12, 2020
Apr 12, 2020 at 11:01 PM UTC
A cookie and a brownie
Two very different things
But put them together
Its a bakers dream
They are one in there own
Together a mystery
Combining them together
A bakers victory.
The smell wafts from the oven
The love at first bite
This is the bakers
best delight
She will share with her freinds
And watch them smile
Then they will talk
Talk for a while
This is a bakers dream
This is the bakers delight
Its the light that guides them
Throughout the night.
Nov 16, 2019
Nov 16, 2019 at 3:31 AM UTC
I was your
crumble you licked, Mmm....
But your always my cookie...
Oct 27, 2019
Oct 27, 2019 at 3:52 PM UTC
I take a bite
of a ginger and chocolate
cookie
and chew
pungent ginger
and sweet chocolate;
soft crumbly cookie pieces
roll over my tongue
as I chew;
my mouth waters
and the flavours
of spicy ginger and delectable chocolate
mix in my mouth.
Aug 25, 2019
Aug 25, 2019 at 3:21 PM UTC
My mind is like a fortune cookie.
Human form the sweet shell.
Zen insights, the fortune
to share.
Jun 6, 2019
Jun 6, 2019 at 10:01 AM UTC
be more thorough
with your dental hygiene
lest the breath
behind the breath
get out
and things become veterinary
Mar 22, 2019
Mar 22, 2019 at 11:12 PM UTC
man (?)
the tomatoes?
patty m.,
a grievous error thy commissioned
tomatoes are the quintessential feminine fruit
red juicy, round, curvy, sweet
with a flavor at once the same,
yet never again always different, diffident,
asized, and blonde or red, never contrived
without it,
would pizza be pizza?
without it,
would **** ***** love,
be merely a good salad
or a poem
ever be the same?
“me love tomatoes”
cookie monster
Apr 19, 2018
Apr 19, 2018 at 11:33 AM UTC
They bumpy
Crunchy chocolate
Chip cookie
Oh how delicious!
With each bite
I die a little inside
Because soon
This moment
Will end
Feb 5, 2019
Feb 5, 2019 at 12:32 PM UTC
A Fortune Cookie
If it could talk would whisper
read so truth be-known
A fortune cookie
gave numbers for lottery
I haven’t won yet
Dec 20, 2018
Dec 20, 2018 at 8:53 PM UTC