Onions

On chopping onions

Onions are white and red

They bring tears from my eyes

That make me dread

Their peeled layers

Always slip away from my hands

As I chop them into slices

To make a spread

With a puffy nose and watery eyes

I look like quite a sight when I chop onions

It’s not my favorite thing to do in the world

Like many other things that I got to do

They bring flavor to my food

Along with garlic and ginger

Onions I don’t like

But I got to do what I got to do

Author's Note

What kind of writing is this? Does it fall under poetry or story?