In a small kitchen,
The 5 of us struggle,
The toaster pops,
The milk spilt,
The buttery knife lays idol,
Roughly dressed and dreary eyed family,
The kettle boils its angry steam,
Yet We are happy,
We are content,
We dont get mad,
We dont get angry that your in the way,
We laugh,
We joke through our crumbed mouths,
Our hairs a mess,
Like a little birds nest,
Our faces not yet fallen to the norm.
Our sleepy eyes, make a gradual growth.
The light begining to awaken the outside.
By the end of Breakfast time in a busy household
We look imaculate
Only the kitchen does not.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
That's one thing I miss. When you're going through it, it appears to be complete chaos and you can't wait to get out the house. When they've all grown up and fled the nest, it becomes a less stressful but more boring affair. I like this. Diversity makes a poem unique. This is diverse Much Enjoyed Steve (two eggs two sausage) Stirk