Typical Monday, it seems. Tried making lunch, while writing my feelings. Epic fail ensues, as thoughts continue to pursue my mind. Forcing me so easily to forget the time.
Poet’s are always lyrical, definitely this one, it seems. I can’t get past writing this as poetry. Stick a knife in my side. Please, won’t you abide? My friends, don’t write and bake, unless burned pizza is all you’re willing to take. My wishes sincere, once again, don’t do both while planning to eat, you won’t win.
Thankful I have a few other attributes that keep you coming around. Like maybe my smile or even my frowns. Tears shower plenty upon these walls, oh God, stop her before she continues to pitfall.
Laughter begins, oh look, a grin! Yep, tis possible, she’s drunk again. No, my friends, it isn’t so. I’m just handling a Monday, so far as this one goes…
Loyal followers, stay with me, please. This is only going to hurt for a minute. Slap happy grins is how I’ll spin it, you’ll see.
She’ll never be an Italian chef
and poetess, too
just look at what
Writer’s multitasking summer,
kitchen’s a wreck,
lovely ideas interrupt
baking, for endless possibilities,
if only I would’ve stopped to check…
This homemade pizza now crisp
and slightly burned, tis true
thankful, in the end
is simply a vessel for brew…
I should go back into the Houston sun. It’s just delightfully hot and humid here. Yeah, I know, I’m almost done. The end is near…