A Poetic Interlude

So I know I said I wasn’t going to be only posting cooking posts. And then I had a long interlude of only posting cooking posts, because the reason I started the Bake Everything project was in part to give me something to write about. (It was also to level up my cooking skills, to be fair– which it is absolutely doing. I have gained at least two levels in cooking.) Realistically, most of what I post is going to continue to be cooking. But occasionally I do other things too, like write poetry. So here’s one I wrote a while back, which I will now share with you. (I’ve been referring to it jokingly as “the death by housework poem.”)

Her smile is sort of brittle,
To tell people she’s well,
A nightmare mask to wear,
On her journey into hell.

Clean the floors and wash the walls,
Organize and bake,
Clean out glasses short and tall,
Follow in the mess’s wake.

The tasks are neverending,
They repeat every day,
And always there are new ones,
Each time something’s squared away.

She’s expected just to fix it,
And never to complain,
Make the world turn with a smile,
She should never be in pain.

She hollows out her insides,
Leaving nothing but a shell,
With a picture-perfect smile,
And efficiency that’s swell.

But where has gone the woman,
When the tasks are all complete?
Don’t be foolish, there’s no finish,
She is never off her feet.

Just hollow out her insides,
Take the mindless shell,
For women are from Stepford,
It’s an awful tale to tell.

Did you ever wonder,
How it is that women die?
Organized to suicide,
In hopes their souls will fly.

For while among the living,
They are fated to endure,
Endless chores tracked to completion,
When always there are more.

Death may not be the answer,
For sure it’s second-best,
But the ideal one won’t happen,
There’s no other way to rest.

So if you’ve ever wondered,
What makes a woman die,
Think of endless fields of details,
And a quiet, tired sigh.


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