A Poor Mans Stew Poem by Ace Of Black Hearts

A random stew.
Ingredients so scarce.
A starving of something a little more eatable.
Pills to swallow.
Please make them smaller.
I'm constantly choking.
Unintentionally perverse.
Diversify the sky.
Split into a million pieces.
Which one fits?
Which one doesn't really belong?
The niceties of a happy song.
Why does it have to go so wrong?
A twisted tongue, heaved and wrung.
Why is it when we reach the bottom of a glass,
there is alway this nasty grit settled sitting left undisturbed.
I'm feeling quite perturbed.
The plucking of a dead bird.
It has got to be cooked or it goes wasted and rotten.
In my head soon to be forgotten.
And I'm sorry if it is so sudden.
But it is either put it down or let it go.
And the words I forget are already too many.
The pinching of pennies.
How much adds up.
Indeeds questions and statement so abrupt.
I still hear the words please shut up.
But I just can't.
Please understand.
This is not a need or demand.
But a homed skill that is lost without use.
My intention wasn't to abuse.
Or to belittle.
Or to confuse.
Just an emptying of a cupboard so I can cook.