First the good news: this is a poem, as opposed to prose arbitrarily carved into uneven lines and pretending to be a poem. You're allowing it to do things that prose does awkwardly. Lines like I have already lost faith in this meal, would stick out clumsily in prose. Context would be called for, explanations, references... who knows. You probably wouldn't try it in prose. But in a poem, you have the liberty to insert a line like that into a description of breakfast preparations and all it does is expand the linguistic space and open the piece up to greater possibilities.

Now the bad news: you can't quite believe that writing a poem is enough. How else to explain such abominations as

i smile because it is not like the pain from the rocks
that sit at the bottom of my lungs or else lodge
in my ventricles—rending my heart.

Understand, it's not wrong, or necessarily bad—well, it's a little over the top—but it's just prose.

Here's another clunker ripped from the jaws of elegance:

i watch, beside myself, as a cracked egg
leaks onto the pan, unimpressed with perfection
as its sweet yolk spoils the pure white.

Despite all the colorful imagery, the only thing actually happening is i watch. It's a poem; one that is personal; you're narrating. If something is seen, we're able to intuit that you are doing the watching. Get out of the way and bring your experience to the fore so that we can make it our experience as well.

Still, both those instances are well-intentioned, and there is much that is useful in each of them, both beneath the surface, and in terms of the potential of what they might evolve into. This next line, however, can only be forgiven, never excused. And the forgiveness would be contingent upon your solemn oath never to try anything like it again:

I plate this slop I cannot unmake;

Take notes: good writing is not about finding complex, obscure ways of restating what is simple. Bertie Wooster on occasion was known to trouser his legs as part of his morning preparation for the coming day, but, truth be told you're no P.D. Wodehouse, and I doubt even Wodehouse could get away with it today. It's true that in poetry, unlike prose, the entire point of the language is to call attention to itself as an element separate and apart from the content that it conveys, but we want that attention to provoke a "Gosh, I wish I'd written that," type of response, not a groan. Let nouns be nouns and verbs be verbs. Enough said.

This poem comes in at 25 lines. The biggest problem is that you haven't allowed yourself to purge the prose instincts from your thinking. There's nothing wrong with your images or the thinking behind the piece. You just need to streamline it. Insert yourself only when necessary (as in the first line I referenced), and seek always to strive for the language of immediacy, rather than language of bland, prosaic narration. Anywhere you suspect a narrator is telling us stuff, cut, cut cut, until all that's left is the stuff itself.

My challenge for you is to cut this down to 15 lines. It can be done, and you'll gain a valuable lesson in the difference between prose and poetry. You're halfway there. Finish the lesson.