Sadness, and lemon cake.
Sadness, is like lemon cake…
The flour and sugar are poured into the bowl,
Don’t add too much,
Only enough sugar to cover up the bitter, sour lemon.
The yellow fruit sits on the counter,
Waiting to be zested…
When you start to zest, you feel fine,
Until your arms shudder,
Your shoulders lock in place,
And the juice seeps into your finger tips.
You see the lemons skin slowly getting white,
And know, that it’s time to find a new area, before you cut too deep.
You flip the lemon to its side,
Finding a new area quickly,
And continue tearing away at it’s skin,
Your wrists start to ache,
You will have to stop soon, before they give out.
A few minutes pass,
You finish zesting the lemon.
All that’s left of it,
Is the pearl white under coat,
Just above the fruit within it,
But just below the surface.
At first the lemon was yellow,
And appealing to the eye.
The lemon is white,
And not as appealing as before.
The lemon is squeezed to create lemon juice,
Taking it’s zing and flavor,
And leaving a layer of pockets,
That were once filled with bitter,
But completely, indescribably, wonderful things,
Tasteless, and compressed.
It now lacks emotion, because it was used for one thing,
And one thing only,
And is thrown to the side, after all that it could give was taken.
It was used to make something better,
Make something taste better,
But the lemon doesn’t feel any better,
Because it gave, and gave, to undeserving things, until it couldn’t give anymore.
Only to make...
For those who feel used and can’t escape the feeling...