Star Struck

You Haven't Won (1)

{Prompt: Write a poem that uses at least three carefully created similes. Make they have meaning, don't put them in there just to be in there.}

Violins play, choir kids sing, a melody soft and sweet.

Then the bass kicks in, the drums and the piano keys, eyes staring intently.

Cheddar and mozzarella, crispy chicken skin, chefs lined in a row, ready for inspection.

One's raw, one's even worse, still clucking, still squawking, it's not even close to perfection.

The violins come back, just as sweet and soft as before, though the songs they play are crying, like the contestant right at the front. 

Set down your apron--your work here is done.

You've made it so far, but your work here is done. You're gone.

So many others have stood there, just as you have. You're not special, you're not different, but that's not always bad. 

The other chefs are safe on the balcony, like babies held in their mother's womb. However, they are far from childish, as they can toss their pans in air like pizza dough, naturally without restraint. 

It's natural to them, as they were made for this. To cook for a family, or to own a restaurant, all walks of life, though at the end there will only be one.

Simmer, bring to a boil, saute and fry, whatever gets you to the top, I don't mind. After all, I'm just behind the sidelines. 

Time's up in 90 minutes, it's already been 60. Will you finish in time, we'll see in just a minute.

Some run around like headless chickens, while others are poised and doing well, it all depends on time management, and some do not have it.

Count to three, hope and pray, just wait for it to stop cooking. Take it out, let it rest, now move onto the next step.

Is the chicken cooked? Is the chicken done?

I'll be deciding that, just you wait. Once the timer's gone, you'll have to show me the plate. 

Oh, there's the time, now it's gone. Bring me your plate, show me what you've done.

The fork glides through the poultry, smoothly and slowly, though have you cooked it properly? I pull it apart with both fork and knife, married by tradition. After all, it's hard to enjoy a meal, especially when it's too hard to cut with one, and too difficult to simply eat with the other. One cuts, one picks up, they're just made for each other.

Like a can full of tuna,  the chicken is hard to open. Its a struggle to cut it, which is never a good sign.

I reveal the pink, glistening insides, something not to my delight. It's raw, you notice, yet you still seem willing to fight.

I can see that--yes, I know it's raw. Well, that's your fault. 

Let's see what the others have to say, maybe you cooked their chicken right. Mine's clearly underdone, though that's only one problem.

Well, looks like you've failed, it's really an issue when you're out three for three. Your smile is sickening, like a mouthful of sardines. However, it doesn't go away easily, like your stubborn personality.

In the end, you are sent away, though I'm not surprised. We can only test you on what you've done for us now, and it was not up to par.

Though, keep on cooking, you've made it this far for a reason. Top 10 is not bad, but your journey has come to an end.

As the symphony plays again, violins jumping, piano keys dancing, you set down your apron and open the doors, leaving the kitchen full of flavors and scents, reminiscent of your memories.

Goodbye, Savannah. You haven't won...

{END}

A/N: If you can guess where the inspiration came from, post a comment! I'd like to know if anyone can guess without me giving away the answer :3