Lines that never add up to scars,
its a pity that the way the dither
seems to randomize the beats,
nothing escapes better than blood.

A cheer-leader waves
her pom-poms in your face.
Nothing energizes a battery
better than energetic youth
And cute of a face and
especially of mixed races
and the finger over skin,
My father at 100 meter run,
was absent despite the applause
and the pies are hot in the oven,
but I'm now too tired to eat......

always the child
who never got appreciated
just an unwanted child
trying her hardest
to be the perfect one—
just once.
trying her hardest
to be appreciated,
dying to hear:
“you did a great job,”
“the dish you cooked was very nice,”
“i’m proud of you,”
“you scored 98% in maths,”
“i’m proud of my daughter.”
she just wanted
to be loved.
to be seen.
to be appreciated.

The clock’s slow hands release their grip,
A whispered breath begins to slip,
Through corridors of fading light,
Where shadows stretch to meet the night.

The week’s tight chains dissolve in air,
Like molten glass that melts with care,
Each task undone, a thread unspun,
The loom of time undone, begun.

A tide that lifts the anchored soul,
Unfurls the sails toward the whole,
Where moments drip like honeyed rain,
And silence hums a sweet refrain.

The pulse of hours quickens now,
As freedom’s seed takes root somehow,
Beneath the skin, a quiet fire,
A spark of vast, unspoken choir.

No longer bound by duty’s weight,
The mind escapes its narrow gate,
To wander fields where dreams convene,
In Friday’s glow, serene, unseen.

🌿 Before we Understand

When we are children,
we dream without measure —
of who we will become,
and how we will live.

Children who grow up chasing dreams
do not yet know reality.
They do not know the world,
or the One who created it.
They do not know life,
nor its cruel indifference.
They do not know man,
nor the twisted paths of his thoughts.

They do not know right from wrong,
compassion from coldness,
goodness from regret.

And yet — we grow.
We begin to understand...
But by then,
we have already grown old.
The dreams — frozen,
and our youth — gone.

What a strange wonder life is.
It steals our time,
before we ever truly understand ourselves.

The silence
is not deafening,
the flowers
are not listening
to my hushed soliloquy -
and so I speak;

I only ask for an ounce, but
I yearn for more bouts
of domestic felicity.
It's not some grand wish,
no mere flight of fancy -
only a gentle plea
for an interlude
from the monotone
blur of days.

At first, it sounds
so very twee:
layered harmonies
and classical strings,
like an echo of
Vivaldi's "Spring"

But Pomme asks,
"Pourquoi j’y pense encore?
Y a quoi de mieux avant?"
Why do I still think about it?
What was there
that was better before?

In an earlier verse,
I was slowly
singing towards
my dirge.