Santi Acosta. 
I really wanted a pancake and never got it:
Life is like a pancake
Why, you ask? Well I’m not sure
I’m sure of my hands
And probably my name
Hopefully my identity
None of this is finite
Finite’s not my favorite word
Words like these stay in my mind
For far too long, if you ask me
Its constant echoes beating lightly
Light makes no sense, seriously
How does light appear from space
And give us pancakes, cookies, and cakes
I don’t know, but at least I have sweets
Reading this poem is a real task
Trust me, the creator would know
Some would say it makes no sense
And,
yeah. that’s true.
I wrote this poem because I wanted pancakes
I still don’t have them. Where are they?
Anywhere but here, obviously
Pancakes can’t be found in a poem…right…?