I have more on my plate than I can eat.

A salad of papers that need finishing

with a light dressing of book work to complete.

A bowl filled with a soup of conversations

with people I don’t wish to speak with.

My spoon takes fluffy mouthfuls

of places to be and people to please

from the mashed potatoes.

Mean, judgmental, shriveled green beans glare from the edges,

wanting me to get to them next.

But I don’t like green beans.

An ugly mush called cooked carrots chants

songs of failure from behind the potatoes.

The chicken in the center is stuffed

with social opportunities.

So delicious I don’t even need to taste it to know what it holds.

I see the smell swirling all around.

A little is pretty great, a lot would be better.

But I’m running out of room on my plate.

There’s still dessert!

A decadent chocolate cake iced  with hopes and dreams.

It sits on a cake stand ontop of the oven,

where all the other food was cooked.

It was baked last,

after everything else had been set on the dinner table to cool.

The cake is so far away,

but it is so tempting.

But who will have room for cake after all the others?

If you eat only what is right in front of you,

will you ever get what is farther?

Did I really want those vegetables?

No.

But did I eat them?

Yes.

After taking on things I didn’t want, and didn’t need, and didn’t like,

I had no room for what I wanted, and what I liked, and what I deserved.

And I deserve desserts.