Just toss them off my brain,
Like so many fractured fragments from
The simmering coffee pot shattered...
Strange ideas percolate,
But now lay splattered
Across some cheap tile knock-off.
How does one arrange the ideas,
When the yarn is unravelling
And all the tender nerves are frayed
By long days at work, slaving away?
Am I in the quaint kitchen,
Cooking up ideas and schemes,
"Mincing words", if you will?
Stirring the sauce,
Sprinkling spices in,
I try to concoct a good story...
...but it feels like a recipe for disaster,
Like the wrong memories
Are getting jammed together,
Leaving me with a pickle of a poem -
Overcooked by leaning too heavily
On an extended meal metaphor.
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