Thursday, September 6, 2007

I Adore When It Isn't Me

Her brow wrinkles in concentration and her ink-stained fingers tap the bench in rhythm. Coffee with what looks like whipped cream on top sits half forgotten next to her stack of notes. She looks up in time to catch a retreating smile. "I was singing out loud, wasn't I?", she asks the smiler. Exasperation Central.


I’m tired of reading between the lines and measuring the depth. I’m tired of placing everything under a damned microscope. I wish I could admire the beauty of the surface, for a change. I wish I could appreciate meaninglessness, irrelevance and anything that is about as much use as a chocolate teapot.
Only sometimes, though.

Poisoned wine


Was laced into
The first glass of sweet wine you offered me

Since then even water tastes like fire

From betrayal is born vindictiveness
And for those of us who never forget
It is akin to the demon child born of a mortal womb

You will always be the poison in my sweet wine

Wednesday, September 5, 2007


The past can be terribly deceptive. It’s like an old photograph. You see a smiling face, a loving arm around someone, and your eyes start glistening with unshed tears.
I look so happy…
Photographs can lie.
They’re just images you create.
Smiles can be faked.
The past can delude.
All because you want to believe.