Sometimes we feel like a baked potato;
Out for too long,
Overly or underly dressed,
Feeling like a hot mess.
Other days we’re the wrongfully-hyped and entirely-saturated lump of mash potatoes.
Smooth and creamy,
Maybe lacking in depth,
But good enough to call satisfying.
On our best days we’re those gold and crispy fries,
That others want by the handful.
Some may call us rather too salty,
Others may say that we’re too greasy.
But, all in all, we’ve reached the peak of the moutain;
The top of the ladder.
Yet, nothing could make me sadder.
Let me be a hot mess if I want to,
A bitter lump if need be,
But never cage me into one category,
And surely never the basis of one word.
I am from the earth,
And I am interchangeable.
This is why I am so relatable.