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your onions are making me cry

The minced beef reminds me of how I want to smash your head.

Inside you, there's no brain
and nothing left to your soul,

with vinyl gloves, I plaster

the feelings.
I hide 'em all

in layers of beef

and just to remember
the garlic does not always give a better taste,

it can also ruin the whole recipe.

Tremendous disasters come due to wrong quantities
-the qualities are already lost.

Don't look at the knives.
They are haemorrhaging in the bags.
They are thirsty for blood.

My mouth is arid and I don't know how to quench it.

Some things you should let go of,
otherwise, you will lose the poise.

As for me, I hold it but for how long?
I'm keen on losing balance, you see...

The fried potatoes are overcooked.
The meatballs are raw.

Don't dare to taste.

The taste of blood will wash you over
on the kitchen sink.

I don't see or taste any blood,
thus this consumes me

-but I won't let you consume me.


Review Request (Intensity): 
I appreciate moderate constructive criticism
Review Request (Direction): 
How does this theme appeal to you?
How was the beginning/ending of the poem?
Is the internal logic consistent?
Editing stage: 
Content level: 
Not Explicit Content


(My only question is,,,,,,,,,,,, Will it fit in the microwave?)

An intriguing piece that I truly hope never to fathom.
a lovely little layer in the lasagna of life.

Loved it btw,,,,,,,,, Obi.

is that your cook isn't happy! I suggest that you go do some grocery-shopping and cook your own meals. I think the cook is planning on making you the dinner, not making dinner for you! ~ Geezer.

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