, , , , , , , , , , , ,

Monotony – to me – is a prison of mediocrity

Only a change in the stasis, creation of static, sets me free

Sometimes creating chaos, I never mind – it’s movement all the same

It takes me up, it takes me down, it’s an unpredictable game

That’s the guarantee

And that’s the irony

Stepping Out of the Metaphor


, , , , , , , , ,

Stepping out of the metaphor

The bonds of cliché had become a cliché

I was waiting for newness to bang on my door

Sometimes it knocks and then walks away

So I set a trap but she’s ever so elusive

Another dimensional me

I can see but it can never be

She’s teasing and taunting, leaving scraps and then flaunting

Tangling me in every attempt to break free

I want to make something of novelty

The more I think the less I’m free

She’s the metaphor, she’s the cruelest cliché

And again with a grin

With a win

She’s captured me


I Tried to Cry


, , , , , , , , ,

Sadness, balled inside my chest;

Would not abide by my request;

To make his exit through my eyes;

There was no budge, no compromise;

I tried to nudge, he stood his ground;

No tears, they just could not be found,

I tried to cry, I try, I try;

I cannot cry, I don’t know why.

The Last War


, , , , , , ,

You feel as inevitable

As every broken heart I’ve mended along the way

On all of the battlefields I have fought

In a war against myself

With faulty armor, I’ve led misguided armies

In useless battles

Blood, sweat and salt of wasted tears

But I feel you are the last war

And I can hear the beat of the battle drum

Summoning me to a fight I’ve already won

You will come with neither sword or shield

For I am armor-less to you

So come



, , , , , , , , ,

I was afraid, gazing into the mirror. I was staring at myself, but I saw someone else. Heaps of white gauze crossed my face, bridging over my nose, barely missing my eyes.

What would I see when I took off that mask? I’d be exposed to things that would challenge my vanity, to be sure. I knew that this mask expertly hid all of the evidence of what had just occurred—stitches, swollen eyelids and bruised skin.

Excision. The more I thought about it, the more appropriate it seemed.

The spot of my excision once held cancer. Before that, it was a sunburn, and then, for years, a scar. I remember the day I acquired that scar. The sun gifted it to me on a hot Kansas day, as I float along the river with J. That scar endured two relationships, relationships that were excised from my life just like that cancer. My new face would carry a new scar, a new me. It would carry not a bit of the old.

Excise. Synonyms: remove, extract, cut away. Over the past few months, my life was excising bits and pieces of itself, one by one. Overwhelmingly so. Peaking with a seven-hour surgery. I felt pain; first emotional, then physical. Tears that I struggled to wipe away. But in the end, it would all heal. My skin would slowly mend, I’d plant new flowers on the other side of town. My life had turn upside down, but it had failed to beat me down.