White-knuckled moments,
Rapid eye movements,
Too many measuring cups,
Not enough trust.
The list is smeared,
The counter a mess,
I spent too much time
And I made too much fuss.

Into the bowl, now,
The shell breaks apart,
And it’s pooling, impossible,
If I can’t do this properly,
What do I have?
I have after-dinner plans,

I wanted you to be a cake.
I wanted you to turn out great.
But my hands are in charge of
The recipe I make,
Not my wants or desires,
Just the skill that I claim —
Put to the test
Like an amateur chef,
Motherfucker, will someone
Take over this mess?

I don’t want to bake anymore.
I don’t want to make this cake anymore.
I wanted a taste,
And I thought I could take it,
But not every meal
Deserves a dessert,
And I think that means this time,
For what it’s not worth.
I’ve screwed it all up,
It will taste just like dirt,
And I don’t want to cause
This confectionery hurt.
I don’t want to bake anymore.


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