Cracked and Open

I wrote a poem. A
Poem that wasn’t really
A poem. It was just
Scribbles of my scrambled life.
Brains like eggs on a hot summers day.
They eat them up, with yolk
Down their chins.
Fervour pinching at their gut,
To feed their endless hunger.
I’ve lost my hunger,
Appetite depleted.
To love, to breathe,
I long to be.
But I will never be.
Born a bad egg.