Spaghetti

A click, click and the burner lights tonight I am not going anywhere but the end of the hall where the broken fluorescent light can help me cook and write A red frothy sauce bursts, hot steam rising up, mist over a scratched tin pot a dirty burner hissing, 17 floors up in the tower with the whistling windows And a microwave reading 6:58… But the clock could be slow and so could this grey day As though it sarcastically is appealing to my melancholy stomach which absentmindedly turns in sync with the wooden spoon stirring the steam into submission I now how to cook a couple of things and I know a couple of songs very well I also can cook up a couple of songs when called upon And I do more often than I ought… Life is sort of like the deep red pot which I try to keep from burning I try to brown each side of my heart to keep it from really hurting But I usually cannot and today it’s hot and it’s a bit hard not to turn the stove off and bring myself to walk, away... I’m just reminiscing and mixing in basil leaves like other things, I try to convince myself that this won’t be forever That maybe one day, some venture won’t lead to the red hot mess and the seething in my chest that always results from my best try to love … But a couple of leaves can’t do the trick and nor can happy thoughts convey, on a grey day in torre that things will ever go my way No, I just pray not to think as I wash the dishes in the sink which drains the waste of my ambition down and out, never to be seen I guess that’s just how it has to be Life may not be for me when I making Emotional spaghetti