Pickle

I am in a pickle,

And I am the pickle.

I am the piece of fresh fruit,

Layered with condiments of emotions,

And preservatives acquired as my personality traits,

Filled up in an air tight box of situations,

Waiting, to be preserved, to be pickled.

Waiting, preserving all my energy, to save myself.

Waiting, to prolong, the life I have.

Waiting, to cherish, all my flavours.

And when I'm shut tight,

In this box with the preservatives of time,

I am becoming softer and harsher,

Amongst the condiments that taste bitter sweet,

Putting me in a pickle of a situation,

But, I'm the pickle anyway,

Pickling for years to come,

Preserving my energy for what it's worth.