Start with a pot that has a hole in the bottom
Throw it on an erratic flame
Controlled by the fickle fates.
Build your base with ample tears
Add salt to taste.
If you spill the salt,
Better to rub it into your wounds
Than to throw it over your shoulder;
Luck is no lady tonight.
Chop up your hopes and dreams
Toss them in the air and pray
They find their way.
Open the door to your heart
And take a long, cruel stare at what remains:
The selfish savor of old pain,
Sweet kisses gone dry on your cheek,
Bone-in memory with dulled fatty forgetfulness,
Dumplings of broken promises your mother made for you
Abandoned peels of overripe resentment your father left.
In a depressions soup, it all goes in the pot.
The flavor is of your own making, no matter who you blame.
It will never sustain you
Or feed those you love.
But still, you must drink it.
If it starts to get dry, just cry.