Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Lavender Menace Mar 2020
I hate hamburgers. The meat seems purpluent and frankly, the whole entourage is terribly disdaining.
Although I know it's wrong of me to choose my slimey, unhealthy version of the food mixture, I adore it so. The beautiful, white thick and firm yet light and fluffy vanilla waffle bun, with holes that could tear your very soul out (and your drive to lose weight) and lead it to a creamfilled neverland of euphoric bliss.
The raspberries and they're very mucilaginous texture, ever tempting me alike sweet filled ***** tempts up your stomach and out of your mouth because the habit and this strangely erodic hamburger that you can't seem to keep away from yourself.
Under those sticky temptations that humans named raspberries. Lies an evil not to be released unto this innocently skinny world. The gluttonous rice, the red bean paste. And. the. Unholy amount of S U G A R… yes, my fellow small waist golden cricket. For the good of hell and heaven I will warn you of the gluttonous evil called the mochi patty. We've all heard of mochi. That beautiful ice cream filled tragedy. Only my vividly destructive hell that i call an imagination could conjure this terrible fat producer as a patty in this baneful “hamburger” this mochi patty creates an all ailing armageddon in your calorie count. And a suburb genesis for your tastebuds, for the smooth, powdered sweet beauty is the bane of all. The fall of man was brought by mochi, because mochigome is an angelic harm.
The next ingredient in this burger of allure is a safe ingredient. F i n a l l y.
Honey
Mustard.
It's but in normal food and it's not too sweet, there must be SOME health benefits of it surely? That small amount of spice in the creamy oasis. Mixes gracefully with the rest of its poisonous peers.
Now back to my torture of pain and of chocolate *****, next is something hard to save you from all this soft. But don't be fooled just yet, this slab of hard is N O T a salvation. For a slab of hershey's milk chocolate is not ideal for hale. The brits can't even handle how much sugar is in this bar of pure D I S A S T E R. your immune system can't take this angelic evil, eat a carrot instead.
Strawberry ice cream is next made with sugar, vanilla, strawberry flavoring, and E V I L.
Filling your large intestine with sin, strawberry ice creams smooth, creamy flavor. With tiny chunks of cheesecake that squish between your teeth and travel down your throat like columbus, come to enslave the naitive americans that is your pride. Be warned strawberry ice cream might smell like the top of a baby's head going in, but going out it smells like artificial strawberry ***** and shame.
Popped like little tuberculosis bubbles in the saten ice cream. Is what people call bursting boba. I call them orbs of joy, the smooth surface in your mouth is always a surprise, it feels like a cyanide pill. Until it goes P O P in your mouth releasing sweet calcium lactate and artificial flavoring into your soul. They never fail to make you happy. But of course, as all happiness seems to do it eventually makes you want to throw your fat self off a cliffside and that bursting boba will be the cause of your head B U R S T I N G. on the sement.
And last but certainly not least you get to taste the savory evil that is the vanilla waffle bun, once again. And O H H this old friend is not very fun to see once again. The thick bun might be expansive on its own, but i promise it will E X P A N D in your poor stomach. And tasting all of this heinous resplendent horror together will probably **** you from an aneurysm or obesity, or diabetes, or disappointment. But all together it's perfect. And a disaster.
A perfect disaster.
Soooo, funny story actually. This was not meant to be a poem, my seminar professor assigned me to write something about the Perfact hamburger using "evocitive words" and I procrastinated untill the day it was due so I wrote this whole thing like an hour before I was sopposed to turn it in and my friend read over it and told me it kinda sounded like poetry, she then proceeded to force me to post it on here. I went a bit overboard on everything so I'm very sorry for that.
Ciara May 24
The sun—
once a son,
orange in the sky,
now a man.
A monkey.
A machine.

You try to shove growth
down our throats
like it’s a sacrament,
but it tastes like unfinished sugar.
Words we carry
masked in dew,
in jars you labeled “love”
but only half-filled.

You gave us creamfills—
the kind with artificial joy
and man-made jam
sealing the rest.

You wrapped it in sweet tooth blankets.
Testaments.
Recipes for identity.
Instructions for collapse.

The box she was locked onto
The Pandora's box.

Streaming voices
flashing memories
in ways no TV could ever perform,
no radio could ever absorb.
She was the signal.
You were the craftsman.

She—the detective
with questions stitched into her scalp,
while you painted machines
and called them beautiful.

She wondered if she was your craft,
or just another tool
you liked to see dismantled.

She sought refuge
in her children.
Her storm-born soft-eyed wolves.

And we—
we threw the creamfilled jams back
because they were always
too sweet,
too heavy,
too hollow.

We shattered your imagination
like stained glass
at a wedding gone wrong.
And I,
with my bleeding fingertips,
picked up the shards
and glued them
onto my dress.

A pretty dress.
But the weight?
Not in fabric.
In gaze.
In the crazy it attracted.

All we ever wanted
was silence.

But silence, I’ve learned,
can be a bomb too.
Can rupture continents
from the inside.

When she finally spoke,
it was the last thing anyone heard.

Because she knew
the toll
of dropping a word
that explodes like hydrogen.

Still,
she carried it.

Not knowing
it would **** her.

And you—
you kept her
like a masterpiece
never meant to be touched,
only mourned.

Together,
you were okay.

Just okay.

But we—
we followed your steps,
wolves packed in the back pockets
of coats that no longer fit.

We carry you.
Not in reverence.
But in weight.

And still,
somewhere in your head,
it’s a farewell,
Mom.

And in yours,
Dad,
it’s a drill.
A slow churn of dead weights
we left behind
for you to carry.

"Carry each other."
That’s my last.

— The End —