October 10, 2004
The sharp picante taste of the pickle stings my tongue,
Its acid taste reminds me of the empty promises made to me.
It runs its way down from my mouth, ruffles my stomach,
Just like those promises the selfish never keep.
Inticing at first, it tickles my tongue, but burns my throat,
As if it was a promise made, a promisefrom one who then broke it.