Today's Temptation

Someone went and bought some timbits to share.

They put it right in front of me.

I figured I'd feed the habit and take a picture.

oh little round sphere
why do you torment me so
evil trojan horse

SDF

Building a Habit and a Hobby

So. Every time I'm close to giving in and eating junk food I've decided to go for a walk and take a picture instead.

Two birds, one stone.

That is all.

SDF

fleeting

there's no standing still
things move beyond reach so fast
but more comes as quick

PAD 002 | Self Starter

starting an engine that hasn't
in a long time
takes patience and time
and while the engine whines
before it revs to a start
the sputtering gasp of last year's fuel
still caught
in the bottom of the tank and in the hose
spews choking smoke and flashbangs
as it starts to turn
and in turn, spark to life

+++

SDF

PAD 001 | Beachcombing (I hate the title)

i spoke with you about ever-after
but you bristled,
brushed it away,
and walked into memory;

so far from those nights we spent
in matching cover-alls, behind armour,
comparing mysteries and spots,
and battling each other's demons.

each stone, uncovered,
a vulnerability and an acceptance
unearthed and exposed

i spoke with you about exposure,
and we picked at our scabs,
stinging time, seething indifference,
demonizing each other's battles, now, too

patience worn thin, and armour threadbare

and I find I cannot comb your crumbs
from my recollection,
morsels of joy, flashes of happiness,
and all our memories of walking

+++

SDF

courting the sun

come catch fire with me /
Icarus never flew so high /
flames, twinned, against the sky

#twaikuish

kissing the rain

behold, this satire, /
the heart grasps the falling rain /
yet fears getting wet

#twaiku

Can You Hear Me Now?

There's no real purpose to this except to test the syndication to various sites.  


i looked into you / 
you were looking at some shoes / 
and couldn't have known / 


#twaiku

beneath the surface

gravel stirs the currents up
with time, gravel's sand

#twaiku

Tattered Cuticles

I've spent the better part of my life to this point, waiting. I've been waiting to be 'discovered' by someone. Sought out. Sought after. For anything. For any piece of who I am.


I wait for buses, gaps in conversation, the right moment to ask her to dance. The right moment to kiss her. The right moment to write freely and without fear of judgement; or without care of judgement anyway.


Oh, I know. I'm being melodramatic. That's my poetic license. That's my prerogative. There are all sorts of roadblocks and reasons why I've waited this long to just begin again. To let go of the past. Emotion comes to mind. Emotion, while I treasure it for it's stick and carrot effect on writing, runs interference on clarity of thought.


I sabotage myself before I really get going.


I'm done with waiting. Those words that I've often uttered in the back of my mind, giving rise to a chorus of voices shouting the same thing over and over. I'm done with waiting. Easy for me to say. For my mind to say.


I still pick at my fingers though.


My point is, it's easy for me to say I am going to stop picking at my fingers, picking at the memories of corruption set upon them in my youth, but it's another to actually stop. A learned behaviour. A habit. An addiction.


It's the same thing with memory and emotion. Diving into those murky waters that don't really exist but echo into the present from time to time. A choice is made, and I'm swept away by the currents.


I still pick at my fingers, and I still remember conversations exchanged beneath a dark sky late into the night and early mornings.


And while a choice is made, and while I don't want to traverse those swirling memories so much these days, I still can't forget the way it felt to fall asleep with her in my arms.


And I still can't forget the dawn in her smile.