I hate the egg:
So smooth and fragile
A wondrous elliptical figure
Inviting breakage and enticing prying
You\'re dying to see what\'s inside
And you\'ll never know what you\'ll find.
When cracked,
the shell, previously valued,
becomes forgotten.
It\'s as though it never existed.
If the inside is acceptable,
it\'s used for a benefit,
cherished for it\'s substance,
but it remains use and forgotten.
Once the interior is displeasing,
everything is discarded.
The interior taints the exterior.
All bad; they both cease to exist.
And if they don\'t,
the memory leaves a bitter taste,
prompts a foul string of words,
leaves a line of disgust at its wake.
I hate the egg,
Because it reminds me so much of me.