Kitchen Poetry # 56.
Love is
the bullet
you fired
from your
heart straight
into mine.
Off the Wall.
A collision of two stars
a clash of two realities
the pages of your notebook is filled with gems that fall carelessly from your lips
like metaphors that come and go
bouyed up with photographs put into words
your imagination is your detachment from reality
and this makes you fascinating and intriguing
like drinking coffee under the stars
or staring into the rainbow reflections of a soap bubble
If she'd let me,
I'd step into her world
just to see how she became such a hopeless romantic
If she'd let me,
I'd hold her heart in my hands and feel how heavy it is
Like an iceberg that floats upon her ocean
Weary like poison in my blood
I’ll wade through her waters
and feel salty despair crashing at my feet
I’ll stare into the endless infinity of her liquid brown eyes
and search
for the faintest hint of my own reflection
staring back at me.
A collision of two stars
a clash of two realities
the pages of your notebook is filled with gems that fall carelessly from your lips
like metaphors that come and go
bouyed up with photographs put into words
your imagination is your detachment from reality
and this makes you fascinating and intriguing
like drinking coffee under the stars
or staring into the rainbow reflections of a soap bubble
If she'd let me,
I'd step into her world
just to see how she became such a hopeless romantic
If she'd let me,
I'd hold her heart in my hands and feel how heavy it is
Like an iceberg that floats upon her ocean
Weary like poison in my blood
I’ll wade through her waters
and feel salty despair crashing at my feet
I’ll stare into the endless infinity of her liquid brown eyes
and search
for the faintest hint of my own reflection
staring back at me.
at
12:37
A Sometimes Struggle.
There's a knock and before I can get to it, in comes Self Doubt barging through the door. He prances in and smiles at me like we're old friends. And he shakes my hand and pats me on the back as he walks past me and settles into the sofa as if it were the most natural thing in the world. I'm left with my mouth agape, fumbling like a fool to shut the door and hang his coat. I'll speak some pleasantries as he eyes my movements like a hawk staring down a prey readying itself for the final swoop. But we both know that if he's already here, I may as well be standing naked in an open field waving a white flag of surrender. And like a fish out of water I will gasp for air. But my old friend Self Doubt and I have played this game over and over again. There have been countless nights we duel in silence just staring at each other. Because even in my weakened state I will claw and kick for any last ounce of life. We both know what will save me. But you never save me.
There's a knock and before I can get to it, in comes Self Doubt barging through the door. He prances in and smiles at me like we're old friends. And he shakes my hand and pats me on the back as he walks past me and settles into the sofa as if it were the most natural thing in the world. I'm left with my mouth agape, fumbling like a fool to shut the door and hang his coat. I'll speak some pleasantries as he eyes my movements like a hawk staring down a prey readying itself for the final swoop. But we both know that if he's already here, I may as well be standing naked in an open field waving a white flag of surrender. And like a fish out of water I will gasp for air. But my old friend Self Doubt and I have played this game over and over again. There have been countless nights we duel in silence just staring at each other. Because even in my weakened state I will claw and kick for any last ounce of life. We both know what will save me. But you never save me.
at
23:53
BlackOut Poetry #8.
Come the weekend,
I'll tell you goodbye again
and settle into unrequited love
because you linger in every moment
in the mornings you flood the room with light
and in the nights you soak every corner of my dreams.
Come the weekend,
I'll tell you goodbye again
and settle into unrequited love
because you linger in every moment
in the mornings you flood the room with light
and in the nights you soak every corner of my dreams.
at
12:07
Crushing Exotica.
He held her too close and he held her too tight. For him time stood still. But for her, the ticking of her wristwatch never sounded so crisp and clear. She knew he was falling for her but she wished she could silence her inner voice telling her to pull away from that familiar embrace. Holding on for a few more seconds couldn't possibly hurt anyone. And so she did. She held on tight. Perhaps they both did. In spite of what she kept telling herself, she pulled away. She broke the hold just as she felt her heartbeat thud and thump in time with his. It could not, should not when it was already tuned to that of another beat.
He held her too close and he held her too tight. For him time stood still. But for her, the ticking of her wristwatch never sounded so crisp and clear. She knew he was falling for her but she wished she could silence her inner voice telling her to pull away from that familiar embrace. Holding on for a few more seconds couldn't possibly hurt anyone. And so she did. She held on tight. Perhaps they both did. In spite of what she kept telling herself, she pulled away. She broke the hold just as she felt her heartbeat thud and thump in time with his. It could not, should not when it was already tuned to that of another beat.
at
00:24
" . . . I choose a life lived in: unmade beds, my nose unknowingly dusted with flour after an afternoon of baking, a pile of travelled and muddy shoes at the front door, blankets loved into oblivion, paint stained jeans, cracked tea cups, well-worn sofas, spontaneous thoughts written on the back of my hand, old Bonne Maman jam jars used as drinking glasses, saved feathers and flowers pressed between pages, breakfast for dinner, small angel statues hidden in the garden, holes in favourite socks, my dad’s old flannels, freckles from too many days spent daydreaming by the creek, candles gracefully adorned with dripping wax, a cat who takes more than half of the bed, books on table tops, underlined and beloved passages, crooked picture frames, mistakes made and lessons learned, crow’s feet that beckon countless nights of laughter, bright eyes that speak with ease of all they have seen, love that makes the possibility of falling worth the descent. I choose a life that is perfect in its imperfection . . . "
at
13:58
My Otherness.
This train rolls on a railway of thoughts which leads straight to expected behaviors. When every step you take is that of a tightrope artist who has to find the right balance. Ceaselessly trying to juggle between just enough and not too much. But in the end, you have to be resolute and unmoved because you know that in spite of the turmoil within, you are a solo act. Not the main attraction but a side show act. And it is exhausting, all this pretending.
This train rolls on a railway of thoughts which leads straight to expected behaviors. When every step you take is that of a tightrope artist who has to find the right balance. Ceaselessly trying to juggle between just enough and not too much. But in the end, you have to be resolute and unmoved because you know that in spite of the turmoil within, you are a solo act. Not the main attraction but a side show act. And it is exhausting, all this pretending.
at
11:52
A Desert Like Forever.
A cusp. An apex. Something was brewing as it quietly stirred in the dark. It was the idea of rebellion that mesmerised under the deadbolt of my closed mind. It was all that passion. But whatever was it for if it was to remain bottled up? All that damned passion just kept on a shelf. Maybe we will never know it even exists until a completed story reveals itself. And then there will be nothing left to do but accept what it is as it is. So as compensation try to delight in a walk through the cool midnight breeze as you push back against the hot sidewalk heat of a long and smoky month. Brush past the traffic and the neon signs and all the noise this city breathes and just let its madness envelope you in its warm and dizzying embrace.
A cusp. An apex. Something was brewing as it quietly stirred in the dark. It was the idea of rebellion that mesmerised under the deadbolt of my closed mind. It was all that passion. But whatever was it for if it was to remain bottled up? All that damned passion just kept on a shelf. Maybe we will never know it even exists until a completed story reveals itself. And then there will be nothing left to do but accept what it is as it is. So as compensation try to delight in a walk through the cool midnight breeze as you push back against the hot sidewalk heat of a long and smoky month. Brush past the traffic and the neon signs and all the noise this city breathes and just let its madness envelope you in its warm and dizzying embrace.
at
13:58
BlackOut Poetry #7.
Walking alone along the salt-soaked boards of my haunted memories. It's a trip down one of those smoked filled open-mic nights where the air is heavy with stale perfume, heavy eyelids and painted on smiles. I find myself meandering the city streets and cobbled sidewalks searching for a ghost. In hopes that I'll round the corner and collide with my own version of magik and inspiration. I'm intoxicated by a sweet anticipation like a flint flirting with a spark on the soul. A hope for some glimmer of warmth or recognition from the empty stares of a stranger's eyes.
Walking alone along the salt-soaked boards of my haunted memories. It's a trip down one of those smoked filled open-mic nights where the air is heavy with stale perfume, heavy eyelids and painted on smiles. I find myself meandering the city streets and cobbled sidewalks searching for a ghost. In hopes that I'll round the corner and collide with my own version of magik and inspiration. I'm intoxicated by a sweet anticipation like a flint flirting with a spark on the soul. A hope for some glimmer of warmth or recognition from the empty stares of a stranger's eyes.
at
14:52
In Private Thoughts.
Walking down the street
Smiling quietly with me but by yourself
Hands in your pocket
Something on your mind
Fire escapes and fences
The holiday lights dancing some kinda magic off of your brown hair
Remember that Spring a few years back
You kissed me and I tasted your salty lips
No traditions, no gift exchanges,
Just a mistletoe hanging from the clear blue sky
Dresses and ties and blazers and heels
You're my somebody to share the holidays with
You're my someone to kiss
You're my someone at midnight holding hands under a streetlight
And you're my someone in those quiet secret moments
What a sweet souvenir
If I let my mind talk,
You are that sweeping statement, the summing up of everything I chant subconsciously.
Walking down the street
Smiling quietly with me but by yourself
Hands in your pocket
Something on your mind
Fire escapes and fences
The holiday lights dancing some kinda magic off of your brown hair
Remember that Spring a few years back
You kissed me and I tasted your salty lips
No traditions, no gift exchanges,
Just a mistletoe hanging from the clear blue sky
Dresses and ties and blazers and heels
You're my somebody to share the holidays with
You're my someone to kiss
You're my someone at midnight holding hands under a streetlight
And you're my someone in those quiet secret moments
What a sweet souvenir
If I let my mind talk,
You are that sweeping statement, the summing up of everything I chant subconsciously.
at
15:29
For My Brothers.
Loving someone is a constant reaching. You don't walk away unless you have a hand to hold. Or else you spend eternity holding it out anyway. Silently, singlehandedly this is human resilience. You do it silently. Hope removes honesty and (imagined) love can thrive. At least in the mind, this is enough. At least for somebody this has to be enough.
Loving someone is a constant reaching. You don't walk away unless you have a hand to hold. Or else you spend eternity holding it out anyway. Silently, singlehandedly this is human resilience. You do it silently. Hope removes honesty and (imagined) love can thrive. At least in the mind, this is enough. At least for somebody this has to be enough.
at
16:02
I'm Sorry.
I'm sorry but I can't. Don't ask me to because you are stitched into the very fabric of my being. It would be like pulling on a loose thread and having me slowly disintegrate into the nothingness that remains when vacant and hurtful words are uttered.
I'm sorry but I can't. Don't ask me to because you are stitched into the very fabric of my being. It would be like pulling on a loose thread and having me slowly disintegrate into the nothingness that remains when vacant and hurtful words are uttered.
at
01:55
Kitchen Poetry # 55.
Stand under the red neon of that dingy bar. Use it's flicker to still your heartbeat and tell me the things you can't as you peel the label off your empty Copenhagen bottle.
Stand under the red neon of that dingy bar. Use it's flicker to still your heartbeat and tell me the things you can't as you peel the label off your empty Copenhagen bottle.
at
16:18
Kitchen Poetry # 54.
But knowing me, I'll be the one standing on the other side of that burning bridge with a can of gasoline in one hand and matches in the other. And should they ask why I did it I'll just light a cigarette and say, "it's times like these you know the true nature of the beast".
But knowing me, I'll be the one standing on the other side of that burning bridge with a can of gasoline in one hand and matches in the other. And should they ask why I did it I'll just light a cigarette and say, "it's times like these you know the true nature of the beast".
at
17:28
Remind Me.
The memory of that summer will coat my tongue with a layer of you. And every so often I will come across a taste, a smell, a sound, or a touch that will awaken the sleeping dragon within. And I will burn like a furnace, from the inside out, longing to gaze upon a face I know better than my own.
The memory of that summer will coat my tongue with a layer of you. And every so often I will come across a taste, a smell, a sound, or a touch that will awaken the sleeping dragon within. And I will burn like a furnace, from the inside out, longing to gaze upon a face I know better than my own.
at
00:39
All by Yourself.
I'll love you like the moon loves the ocean. From a distance but always there. And even though there will be times you'll find it hard to see me. You must know that there's a smile on my face. For the dance you do as you kiss the shore is one that will captivate me till the sun and the stars burn out one by one and I'm floating in nothing but the essence of you.
I'll love you like the moon loves the ocean. From a distance but always there. And even though there will be times you'll find it hard to see me. You must know that there's a smile on my face. For the dance you do as you kiss the shore is one that will captivate me till the sun and the stars burn out one by one and I'm floating in nothing but the essence of you.
at
22:11
Kitchen Poetry # 53.
I write you love poems on my skin
And you grin as you erase alphabet by alphabet with teasing kisses
I'll write you another until I'm nothing
but the salty taste that lingers on your salty lips.
I write you love poems on my skin
And you grin as you erase alphabet by alphabet with teasing kisses
I'll write you another until I'm nothing
but the salty taste that lingers on your salty lips.
at
20:39
Hard Break / Heart Break.
The shore's deep cobalt waters gradually give way to sand and polished stone. Outside, raindrops crash to the ground like a string of pearls ripped from a delicate necklace. They scatter loose and bring to mind a painful, ecstatic heartbeat. Each drop caresses and kisses dead branches blackened by soot and flames. I'll gather each pearl, searching on my hands and knees in the dying light. A futile practice but an exercise in remembering. But could anything remain on naked flame as tiny embers dance in the midnight air?
The shore's deep cobalt waters gradually give way to sand and polished stone. Outside, raindrops crash to the ground like a string of pearls ripped from a delicate necklace. They scatter loose and bring to mind a painful, ecstatic heartbeat. Each drop caresses and kisses dead branches blackened by soot and flames. I'll gather each pearl, searching on my hands and knees in the dying light. A futile practice but an exercise in remembering. But could anything remain on naked flame as tiny embers dance in the midnight air?
at
21:53
A City Like You.
If you were a city you'd be an eclectic place to live. You'd be as classy as Paris, as hip as LA, as cultured as Rome and as wild as Amsterdam. And I'd gladly spend all eternity exploring your winding back alleys, city pavements and rolling hills just so I know how the sunrise and sunset look from every square inch of you. So with every step I take, with every new discovery made, let it spell an alphabet from a never ending love letter to the pleasures of simply having found you.
If you were a city you'd be an eclectic place to live. You'd be as classy as Paris, as hip as LA, as cultured as Rome and as wild as Amsterdam. And I'd gladly spend all eternity exploring your winding back alleys, city pavements and rolling hills just so I know how the sunrise and sunset look from every square inch of you. So with every step I take, with every new discovery made, let it spell an alphabet from a never ending love letter to the pleasures of simply having found you.
at
00:00
On Days I Refuse to Say Goodnight.
She was more the spontaneous kind of girl. The kind of friend who taps at your 1st floor bedroom window at 4am, gets you to ninja climb down a tree, sprint halfway across town and then up a small hill just to prove to you the sunrise was really tangerine orange in colour. She was just that kind of girl. The kind you wouldn't mind waking up at 4am for.
She was more the spontaneous kind of girl. The kind of friend who taps at your 1st floor bedroom window at 4am, gets you to ninja climb down a tree, sprint halfway across town and then up a small hill just to prove to you the sunrise was really tangerine orange in colour. She was just that kind of girl. The kind you wouldn't mind waking up at 4am for.
at
23:32
Kitchen Poetry # 52.
A love letter written
with every step
in this dying city
over sidewalks
and broken pavements
I was searching
but did you even see me standing there?
A love letter written
with every step
in this dying city
over sidewalks
and broken pavements
I was searching
but did you even see me standing there?
at
22:40
Kitchen Poetry # 51.
Bill and his girl; is it weird they're so much like you and I? But instead of traveling some foreign country, ours is a world of distant suns, constellations and galaxies. So much more than Paris, New York or Japan. Dream your wildest dream and I'll paint it in words on our canvas made of sparkling diamonds. And when we need to rest we'll lay down on a shooting star and you can tell me where you learnt to smile as bright as the moon on a cloudless night.
Bill and his girl; is it weird they're so much like you and I? But instead of traveling some foreign country, ours is a world of distant suns, constellations and galaxies. So much more than Paris, New York or Japan. Dream your wildest dream and I'll paint it in words on our canvas made of sparkling diamonds. And when we need to rest we'll lay down on a shooting star and you can tell me where you learnt to smile as bright as the moon on a cloudless night.
at
22:11
Kitchen Poetry # 50.
When I was cold he held my hand. He would often sing a melody that sounded like the gentle rustling of leaves. And just before stepping out into the chilly night air, he would drape himself with a jacket made of stars.
When I was cold he held my hand. He would often sing a melody that sounded like the gentle rustling of leaves. And just before stepping out into the chilly night air, he would drape himself with a jacket made of stars.
at
11:43
Kitchen Poetry # 49.
The old adage 'opposites attract' is such bull crap seeing how similar we both are and how well we get along together. So scoot on over here, swallow your pride and grab hold of my hand. Let's give 'em something to talk about.
The old adage 'opposites attract' is such bull crap seeing how similar we both are and how well we get along together. So scoot on over here, swallow your pride and grab hold of my hand. Let's give 'em something to talk about.
at
00:22
Kitchen Poetry # 48.
It was like a strangers smile could heal even the most heartsick of us. And in that glance the world was set on fire through hooded eyes and breathless words. Nothing was spoken but actions were felt. Soft and gentle like the fluttering kisses of a butterfly on your skin.
It was like a strangers smile could heal even the most heartsick of us. And in that glance the world was set on fire through hooded eyes and breathless words. Nothing was spoken but actions were felt. Soft and gentle like the fluttering kisses of a butterfly on your skin.
at
23:19
Kitchen Poetry # 47.
Sometimes all we are looking for is a gentle squeeze of the arm or a comforting smile from a friend. Leave the fireworks and violins to Hollywood and come and give me a hug because in this house, the smallest gestures are always the most powerful.
Sometimes all we are looking for is a gentle squeeze of the arm or a comforting smile from a friend. Leave the fireworks and violins to Hollywood and come and give me a hug because in this house, the smallest gestures are always the most powerful.
at
00:13
Kitchen Poetry # 46.
The ghosting of fingertips on bare skin. And closer than the vein that throbs in your neck. Close your eyes and imagine me there. In an embrace that chills you right to the core. Holding on like a memory that won't fade.
The ghosting of fingertips on bare skin. And closer than the vein that throbs in your neck. Close your eyes and imagine me there. In an embrace that chills you right to the core. Holding on like a memory that won't fade.
at
22:54
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