When they would like to feign great failure.
How false it is what they most treasure;
How confused, ignorant, and vulgar they must be.
If my cries could reach my stockpot,
Reaching yet all the way to my sauté pan.
With this trembling hand of mine my tale could be written.
In tears a menu I would write,
And if my menu could not be seen,
For need of a darker ink
Black is the color that I’d choose, because it best reflects my bitterness,
anger, and frustration.
Even though I still dream of Grand Cuisine
The heartbreaking truth is that my arm no longer obeys me.
I cannot dream when I am so deeply entrenched in melancholy, sadness, and despair.
I have died but am still here.
Relight my fire I would like, but my tears keep putting out the matches