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I Became A God At Breakfast

Margaret Slate, a sophomore at Peoples Academy in Morrisville, says this about writing: ;My reason for writing is simple: it lets me express feelings that nothing else can. I've always loved to draw, but my abilities, or lack thereof, hinder my attempts to really show how I feel. Writing comes so naturally and flows easily when I'm feeling strongly about something. I love the way the words flow, and the exhilaration of new thoughts expanding and blossoming on paper is such an indescribable feeling.;

I Became A God At Breakfast
By Margaret Slate
Grade 10, Peoples Academy

As I made my breakfast this morning,
I understood the world,
While simultaneously adding a
Whole new layer to the viscous sludge
Of never ending questions that I currently
Keep grasped tightly in my mind.

I made something simple,
As I felt like viscous sludge myself all day.
I pulled the plastic encased pack a Ramen from the cupboard
Ripped open its flesh
And removed its soul,
You know, that little packet of flavoring?

I stole the pan from its home on the stovetop
Washing it with boiling water
Pouring from the faucet that seems to never end
I scoured the insides for traces of dirt,
And satisfied,
Filled it with cool swirling crystalline droplets

I lit the flame
I placed the pan
And I dissected said soul of Ramen
Tearing open a gaping wound
Emptying its desperate disjointed contents
Into the dark swirling tumult

I watched it
For a moment,
As the powdered soul of some
Lifeless being
Became entranced, dancing through the water
Swirling about the shallow pan

And as it did,
I became god
A galaxy formed, swirling particles
Inadvertently sticking together, densely forming their own little worlds
As the galaxy spun on, slowly slowing a bit
When all was calm, I the unexpected god
Watched, and observed

A little solar system
Spotted with planets and suns and moons
Was created, before my eyes
And then, as the water came to a boil,
It was gone.
Planets broken to bits,
The sun itself extinguished
And my time as god ended

There were worlds, home to dust motes
But what must they have thought
As their world spun and tumbled
And was enveloped in the supernova
Of my stovetop

What are we, then,
As we spin
And turn
And dance with the sun
As some un-expecting god looks down
Perplexed at what he has done
In a simple
Unexpected action


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