Bad Poetry: An Ode To Ravioli



A pasta filled with cheese
Sometimes spinach.
I love you so much
I’ll eat spinach.

So plain on the outside
So unassuming, so quiet.
But I know
It’s what’s on the inside that counts.
On the inside,
There are fireworks.
(Or at least ricotta)

Sometimes I’ll sneak into the kitchen
Desperate for your company.
And you’re always there, Ravioli.

You’re my totem in this crazy world.
When I eat you
I know I’m dreaming.
Because nothing that good
Can be anything less than a dream level.

At night I toss
And turn
Hollowed by the Silence
Gutted by the Darkness

The only thing
That carries me
Through to dawn
Is knowing you understand.

You were empty once too.
Waiting hopeful
For someone to fill you
With cheesy happiness.

We try and depend
On the promise that someone will
Swoop down and save us.

Be the spinach and mushrooms
That make us worth having.
Worth plating and serving.
Because without that
We’re nothing more
Than poorly cut fettuccini.

But I know the truth.
I don’t need anyone else to feel whole.
Or worthy of plating.
With you by my side,
I am enough.

Because baby,
You’re the spinach and mushrooms
To my pasta dough. Thought Catalog Logo Mark

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