Anger For Dinner

My heart is a cauldron of sewage,
Spinning, spurring, stirring the pot,
Bogged down by lentils of time wasted
On stomachs of those who don't care
It's an old recipe, passed through my lineage
Or rather forced, tossed like hot potatoes
Because the final step
Always burns the chef's fingers.

Written August 2021.

Take me back.

Take me home.