Writers Jam

I'm a broken chef dusting off my toque, all but starved of hope. Overcooked and burnt out, but I've still got a fire to stoke.

Years are passing by, and I keep losing focus.
Yearning hands ache to realise pan-flashed notions.
All to feed my ambition of a magnum opus.
Marinated delusion, I'm married to this one purpose.

But I ponder, that no matter what I serve, it wouldn't impress you.
Your appetite's just as satiated with an order of fast food.
Deep fried platitudes with a side of microplastic stew.
The world spins on a microwave plate, let me know when it blows up.

I've given up so much time, honing my craft late at night.
No one notices the scars lacerated from my own knife.
You won't be privy to the salty tears shed and dried.
All you see is the mess on my apron.

When I peer out of the hole in the kitchen entrance.
I quickly withdraw, my hands now shaking and anxious.
I've sent out my heart in a dish to be degusted and dissected.
My soul poured out in a glass of wine, will you feel disgusted or- don't tell me!

I'm a broken chef, but I've gotten a taste of hope.
I may be overworked and forgotten, but it was worth it.

For the fleeting moments when I was truly known.