I want to bury myself

 in the kitchen.

The merry laborers 

that get eaten 

are not always sad.

The love that room breeds.

Time was acting 

like a narcissist 

when it was invited,          

now in the kitchen.

Everything is me 

somehow by now 

and I’m it in. In it. 

The perplexity. 

My kitchen; buried in

 the soils in a room

and no one knew but

 the fruits corpse

and my rotten body next to it.

An apple is in sight and

 blinded the time 

we spent together.

 I disregarded it. 

An expiring body.

No matter how sweeter 

she or it could 

be I didn’t bite her.

The beauty was on purpose.

Many women fruits in a 

box decomposes as 

they never chose 

to medicate time.

Some like to call it forbidden 

fruit, for if you 

taste her sweet particles

 lavished in an empty life, 

only prostrating in death, ye, 

in reality, do not

like thyself and ye rūm or crib as 

the new men have entitled.

Don’t blame my poems blame 

my vague dark mediocre 

Amygdala

             -Izma