Being the black sheep of the family
Is all well and good until winter comes.
The grass is frozen, food is scarce
And those stomachs don't stop rumbling,
Ever wailing to be appeased,
Unaware and uncaring to the icy conditions.
They're not monsters, no.
They huddle together for warmth;
Snow dusting their coarse wool
As they stand, determined to make it through the cold.
But their stomachs scream like dying beasts,
And the ache is so prevalent in their empty bellies.
No fat to chew on, time passes by so slowly,
And that black sheep is starting to look like the odd one out.
It doesn't look like food,
But it does seem just enough like an other
To smother any guilt that may linger
At the bottom of a recently-assuaged hunger.
They're not monsters, no,
Because the black sheep was never one of them.

The rain pours and the thunder roars.
It's comforting, it's the sound of solitude
Despite the headlights rolling by
And the lampposts shining brightly orange.
Rain splashes gently, hitting the ground,
And there's no other sound I want to hear,
So I drown everything else out.
In silence and shadow I excel.
Retreating to the alleyway, narrow and foreboding,
Its harrowing nature is a sanctuary for my own self.
I become the darkness that surrounds me,
The nothingness, the non-existent threat.
I hear the sound of heels clicking on pavement,
Gentle splashes where shoe meets water,
Not too far off in the distance,
But it takes me only an instant to let the predator take over my mind.
Steadily paced, the footsteps grow louder;
The pheromones so strong that it's almost a taste.
I wait, breath bated, for the moment to arrive.
The gap between here and slaking the thirst feels too wide,
Like the pupils of my eyes, dilated,
And I'm overdosing on oxytocin when finally I strike.
Pulling the warm body into the claustrophobic alley,
The blackness engulfs us both.
We are nothing.
Nothing exists except for her heartbeat, thumping and drumming
Until it...fades.

I woke up to a sky of grey
a hiding sun, a rainy day
clouds of hail - stormy what nots
rotund, dang and heavy drops

I said to them, be my poem.

Then the clouds of storm cleared
the golden orb appeared
a rainbow spilled color on the grass
the blossoms sang sweetly - unasked

I said to them, be my poem

To the poor man on the street
and the rag picker with bare feet
the cobbler and the fruit seller
the palmist and the fortune teller

I said to them, be my poem

To a new born and then flesh on a pyre
the wind that whisks ashes of fire
to the fragrance of spring and the frost of cold
the stench of garbage and the scent of rose

I said to them, be my poem

I turned to love, anger and defeat
laughed with humour and cried with grief
traced the many fleeting expressions on a face
fluid movements and those without grace

I said to them, stay and be my poem

Then I paused, I looked within -inside
into my heart and in my mind
so I could meet myself and know
see and hear, feel and grow

So that one day, I too may become a poem

the seasonings in the meat and
simmering on the stove now
the oven pre-heating
it's taco night
I got quite the audience
3 kittens and Missy
all watching it so intently
I can read their eyes and minds
they are thinking
hot **** we gonna
eat good tonights