You still make your own bread
because it reminds you of your mother
working hard to feed her 10 children
during the dreadfulness of war, near the flaming stove

It reminds you of a time when things were anything but easy
When you had to save your meal for a scarcer time
When you woke up before the rooster's call
and prayed for your family's safety
When you realized just how much
burden and uncertainty your rib cage can carry
When you learned what strength really is
and how grief truly feels
When dehydration turned your tears into dust
When sleep was a luxury your worried eyes could not afford
When every new breath felt like a responsibility
and every water drop down your throat
felt like blessing you couldn't afford

You still make your own bread*
I think people wonder why you want to remember such a painful time
But I understand you completely

Pain is the bitter flavor your taste buds are used to
It is the background music of your video

The idea of remembering the painful past
Is not to feel pain, it is to feel the joy within the pain

The flour taste remaining on your lips
after you voraciously devour the loaf of bread
The weight your thin arms learned how to carry
The look of appreciation your mother gave you
The sense of responsibility that made you feel needed
The sunrise that made you feel yet alive
The 5 minute snooze that gave you energy
The relief after tear-less cries
The prosperous smiles
And the loss of fears

You still make your own bread*
It tastes terrible
But I love it endlessly

In a time of deep uncertainty

with my NuBlaccsoUl in ruins.

The kingfisher Ja bade me follow Creepstar

To the mystical place

In search of grace,

beyond sheer Pradip mountains

Where the clear crisp ink of fountain flows.

Here the saints of Ignatius

stop to quench their thirst.

The journey held danger

when I came upon a stranger

I became enchanted by the spells

of a mischievic Pixievic.

Spell bound I watched entranced

  the sheer dexterity of the Busbar dancer

Whereupon My poor dark soul

fell deep in a hole.

I was taken through the worst by Steven Langhorst

To arrive safely at the hallowed grounds of Newvango

Where now I see

the Paradise in me.

Maybe, all this time
I was feeling this,
A l l    a l o n e .
. . .
This is not a poem,
But what I feel,
A l l    a l o n g .