A Poem is Like a Pizza
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A Poem is Like a Pizza
A poem is like a pizza,
which means you should take it seriously
but not so seriously that you forget to enjoy it.
The crust is structure—holding everything together,
doing quiet engineering work like a bridge that also tastes good.
The sauce is feeling, spread everywhere on purpose,
not just dumped in one emotional puddle
like someone tripped and spilled a jar of tomatoes.
Cheese is language—melting across the whole thing,
connecting every bite, stretching just enough
so nothing feels separate or lonely.
Toppings are details—pepperoni facts,
mushroom memories, random olives of weirdness
that not everyone asked for but somehow belong there.
Too many toppings
and the whole thing collapses under its own ambition,
which is a real structural problem, and also a life lesson.
Too few and it’s just dough thinking about greatness.
You have to decide
how much is enough,
how weird is too weird,
how bold you want to be
with pineapple-level decisions
that divide entire civilizations.
And when it’s done, you hand it to someone else,
hoping they taste what you were trying to say—
even if they pick off the onions.
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