What do potatoes think of
When kept with other potatoes?
What do they keep on doing
When they are there over there
What secrets do they hide
In the dusty recesses of their mind?
Do they dream,
About being a bowling ball one day day?
Or to be used as makeshift grenades?
Or to drink Red-Bull,
And fly away?
Do they plan on coming to life,
And launch a Potato Revolution?
And then eating them
Just like the humans ate them once.
Wouldn’t it be ironic,
\That when a potato is thinking about its future
And is cut three seconds later.
But in the end,
When everything is said and done,
What are those little brown awkward shaped things thinking of?
My most existentially fraught poems and works(That’s a joke XD). Back in 2012, I used to be obsessed with potatoes. I still am, but I think of them less, now that I resemble one less (Again, a joke. I make a lot of lame jokes. They’re a part of me XD). I love this poem. It reminds me of a time when I used to write just for the heck of it, all the time. I do too now, but at times I go for more complex and more professional, rather than so kiddish. But here’s hoping you all love this!
Happy Reading everybody!