Though moulded of the same dough,
We are all cast of a different mold,
Most rise soft and springy as bread,
Other misfits end up as biscuits instead,
Yet none wants to be the thing that they were born and bred,
To be.
It baffles me, the irony,
That though there’s time for each,
In any ordinary bakery,
Bread soon tries to harden,
And winds up stale instead,
Biscuits crumble, become brittle,
Soon as they try to soften,
And become bread.
I love this piece. This poem comes from one of my favorite poets/musicians Kevin Waithaka (Man-njoro). I can’t wait for him to hit the big time. He inspires me to be a better poet. If you like his poetry you can follow him at @Kevinmanjoro.
