A Poem That Doesn't End So Well

Pretty much how I write most of the time...

A round, pitiful, little lump of dough
sat lazily on the counter

It seemed like a good idea at the time
to see what could be done

Mixed the best ingredients
it sat there stiff and cold

So I left and waited
for the softness and pliability

I waited, oh I frustratingly waited
It seemed forever

But it finally rose in shape
from that lifeless block

I slapped and molded
dusted and rolled

Then I took a rolling pin
Played baker's whack-a-mole

Spread it out and kneaded more
until I thought it was ready

Into the pan to bake
A perfect mix of love and hate

Waiting more for that smell
A teasing of the nostrils of

Burning?

Coughing, I removed it
the smoke alarm yelling it's done

Thanks Copernicus, I got it

Pieces blown all over the oven
Charred remnants of a good idea

S**t, I've run out of flour...

Reviews

[Mockingbird]

this is a weird poem, just your style. it is by no means s**t. or did you mean 's**t, look what happened.' you're a great story teller whether in prose or poetry. i am so jealous, haunzwurthe.