Dark emotions at low heat are stirred with some care
As if slowly discerning chaos taking place
At the whim of the movement of one person’s arm.
If the stew is disgusting, to stir it with charm
Is as bad as observing it. Damn the disgrace
I incur while preparing a meal of despair.

Some times are best lived indoors where safe people are
From my errant behavior. It stays within bounds
That the self can control well without being mean.
But if I keep on cooking I’ll have much to clean.
It’s not meant for consumption – not even by hounds
Who are horridly human and grossly bizarre.

I can’t eat what I’m cooking. Attempts sometimes fail
Long before thoughts of hunger go stale in the mind.
Using fear and confusion to season the stew
Is a mad spark of genius. What more can I do
To expunge negativity of every kind
From the soul of the sick self and thus avoid jail?

Feeling closely at hunger is effort worthwhile.
Motives must be examined for how I behave
And the cause of my triggers are rightly revealed.
Miracles often happen. If I may be healed
Of the worst that exiles me what pain might I save?
The good chef becomes well by admitting denial.