Breaking My Fast Poem by Glen Martin Fitch

I take a dozen eggs 
out of the fridge.
My thumb nail tests 
the firmness of a shell. 
A world's contained 
within each fragile cell.
Is living 
not a wondrous privilege?  
Yet everything I eat 
makes me feel fat.
It seems I've lost 
before the day's begun. 
The carton cradles each 
and I pick one,
which falls out of my fingers
with a splat.
Do I do this to me 
or is it fate?
'To me be true! '
Each day new schemes
I try to finally take control,
yet cheat and lie.
I know the soul 
I'm working to create. 
I ought to stoop 
and wipe it off the floor.
Instead I turn 
and drop eleven more.