OATMEAL || a poem

Unsweetened cold porridge
shoved in front of my face every morning.
I used to never eat breakfast.
The box says 'maple and brown sugar'.
My bowl says "put me out of my misery".
Whatever the spoon had shoveled;
I let sit inside my mouth,
then wait for the minute it begins to taste like 'something'.
What has now become second nature
is waiting for that something to kick in.
Waking to vulgar looking slop,
part of the daily routine;
Rejecting one's dire need for a plethora of frowned upon antidotes still seems unreasonable.
The spoon, no longer smothered,
with pale tasteless sludge;
what is supposedly keeping me alive.
My eyes fix themselves onto Old Man Quaker.
I begin to question the crows feet grin on his face.
I could never smile the way he does.
The slop considered nourishment restricts me from doing so.
Perhaps all this time, the morning porridge is to blame.
Suddenly, a tinge of relief.
A certain sensation rushing through my veins,
my consistent curiosity of 'is it my fault?' slowly fading away.
Newly convinced, I speculate my bowl further.
Something strange is inside the porridge,
constantly leaving me in disarray.
I've been eating porridge everyday.