Distaste


I have muffins in a tin, left moldy.
Crumbs on the counter prove
I just cannot make my poetry into
a fine, sensible layered cake.

Cheap cliches, like icing, always dripping
from the sides. Icky sweet sentiments try
to hide behind the hale of carrot,
hearty whole-wheat,
fancy candles.

I taste only wax, chewy lumps of pre-mixed
formulaic batters, mindless chatter.
Euch! Blechk! Blurp! How thoughtlessly I pratter!
How carelessly put-together!