Mud Pie

I used to spend hours on end perfecting the recipe

To a mud pie.

Garnished with leaves, sunbaked to a crisp.

A gourmet cuisine of ignorance

Paired with the carefree spirit of childhood.

I used to proudly carry in my batch of mud pies,

The toast of household dinners.

Nothing could compare to the pleasure of receiving

Grins upon grins, praise upon praise.

The critics raved, a masterpiece,

My hands creating sweet ambrosia.

But the gods no longer request my mud pies.

Deprived of its quality to be set

At a heavenly feast.

Criticized for repetition, failing to woo the judges.

A great chef has fallen.

Receiving glares of disgust, shame,

Nothing can compare to the dishonor.

Mud dripping from the sides,

Overflowing with a desperate desire for recognition.

A disaster dish of hopelessness

Paired with a necessity for validation.

A tablespoon of tears, just a pinch of woe.

I now spend hours on end trying to remember the recipe

To a mud pie.

 

This poem is about: 
Me

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