When you throw it against the wall, but fail to crack the egg.
When you pour it in a bowl, but neglect the soggy cereal.
When you spread your meal across the plate, but waste what you have made.
If Breakfast is what makes a good day,
Or if that’s what you say?
That your misunderstanding betrays.
Don’t wish me luck at school when this is your opportunity to throw me away.
When chairs pivot from underneath desks to intercept me,
Empathizing teachers will ask if I am okay,
But I divert them by remarking,
“I’m just a little hungry,”
Barely managing to pull a smile out of my pocket-dimension,
And walk away.
You are deceived by my expression,
Oblivious to my depression,
But it’s just bad breakfast anyway.
Tossed forth upon the floor,
Disposed of in the trash,
Dead to my core,
Putrid in a flash.
Rotting like submerged mummies,
Under dunes of desert powder,
So why aren’t my screams any louder?
Because linen wrappings shackle my dreams,
Because a good breakfast isn’t what it seems.
Because this hollow mummy,
Because, only when you unearth the sarcophagus,
Only when you desecrate the tomb,
Only when you lift the mask,
And unveil the curtain,
Only then, will you see me hurting.
So waste the breakfast that I have made
Waste the feelings that I portray.
Most problems on Earth are neglected either way.
So when I ask, “Breakfast for mummies?”
They say, “No such thing,
No good day,
Put that mask back on and run away.”