Something plastic

culinaryoverlord

I think the dirt between my toes has gone stale
And the mountains all look like paintings
The leaves are always changing
The wind is always blowing
One way or another
I miss plastic
It's defined edges
It's lack of sympathy
It is drawn in permanent marker
Not this pencil crayon nightmare
Of days and nights
Of seasons and births and deaths
Plastic has no cricket song
No delicate play of light and shadow
I want to touch it
I want to feel that it is separate
And always will be

StephenPBarrett

I feel that way sometimes but not usually. You should post more poems if you have them. You're skills with literature are refreshing and if your culinary aptitude is better please make a recipe book. The combination of the two would probably create a rip in the fabric of space and time leading to a demension of tasty morsel and thoughtful prose. I could live there.