There is a stew within my brain, and

There is a stew within my brain
And I do not want to eat it.
There is a stew within my brain
And I do not want to see it.
There is a stew within my brain.
There are no refrigerators.
There are no Tupperware bowls.
There are no zip-lock bags.
There are no garbage cans.
There are no other people to eat it.
There is a stew within my brain
And I wish it were a dessert.
There is a stew within my brain
And it has sat in one place for days.
Things are growing in it
And it looks very strange.
There is a stew within my brain
And I want to vomit whenever I attempt to talk myself into having a bite.
It consists of sentences that stand alone,
That do not connect and they all seem to fight.
There is a stew within my brain
And I want to pick it up and dump it on the floor,
The only problem is that I would be left to clean it up and look at it more.
There is a stew within my brain
That consists of tears
Fears
gears
And
Kissing rears.
There is a stew within my brain
That used to be soup.
The soup used to be broth.
The broth used to be water.
The water used to be air.
The air used to be fair.
There is a stew within my brain
And I am convinced that if spilled,
It would leave a huge stain.

There is a casserole in my body
And I don’t want to eat it.
There is a casserole in my body
And I don’t want to see it.
There is a casserole in my body.
There is no plastic wrap.
There is no dish.
There is no ice.
There are no preservatives.
There are no dumpsters.
There is a casserole in my body
And I wish it were a banana.
There is a casserole in my body
And it is cold and moldy.
It moves without movement
It is alive and does not look ordinary.
There is a casserole in my body
And I feel sick when I poke at it with my knife.
It consists of confused, neuronal vibrations,
That do not connect and they all seem to fight.
There is a casserole in my body
And I want to get rid of it,
The only problem is that it is a metaphor for something in my body resembling a fidget.
There is a casserole in my body
That consists of jitters
Litter
bitter
And
Feeling withered.
There is a casserole in my body
That used to be an entrée.
The entrée used to be food.
The food used to be good.
The good used to be tasty.
The tasty used to be delicious.
There is a casserole in my body
And I am convinced that if dropped
Along with it, would be my entirety.