By: Izeria Hargrove
(a.k.a:
Izzy)
This
cookie
It
looks like my old neighbor.
The
cracks,
They
represent his wrinkles.
“This
cookie is the
death
of me.”
He
probably didn’t
know
it would…
…kill
him.
It
smells like
A
week old brownie
Maybe
one by
Me
A
strange aroma
A
mix of
Chocolate
chip
But
also of
An oven.
An oven.
There
is a soft texture.
And
a strange taste.
After
I tore the cookie
In
half
I
saw the moon.
Really.
One
of those
commercial moons
with
a ugly
smiley
face.
Sometimes
I wonder
Is
this how he felt?
You
know…?
When
he died?
At
peace
Or
Something
like that.
It
makes you think
What
is we gone
Do
when we
You
know
Pass
into the unknown region?
Cuz
you know
Even
the simplest thinhs
Make
you think of
Your
greatest fear.
That’s
just when
You
get up close
And
personal
I
mean think of it
My
neighbor died
Eating
a really good
Cookie.
Imagine:
a sweet smell
Drifting
through the kitchen
You
just made
Cookies
You
let it simmer down
And
go to eat.
You
take a bite
And
Try
to swallow
Its
stuck.
You
rush to the fridge
For
some of
Your
mothers most bitter
Batch
of lemonade
You
raise the glass to your lips
Only
to collapse.
You
were too late.
Such
a sweet, sweet death.
At
least there was no pain.
But really. I'm serious. I was standing in the shower one day and was thinking... Am I real? Or am so fake? Do your ever think of day a wonder….are
you real?
