we walk through the years
along the tiring shores
of the ocean of life
not knowing when our paths
will fade away and be forgotten
among those of many others

at times, when the tide is low
and sun warm the sands
we find abundant treasures
scattered for us to pick
and claim as ours
we laugh, in happiness

at times, when the tide is high
and fierce storms rage
we barely cling on
to our frail dear life
waves reclaim our treasures
we scowl, in sadness

as the tides high and low
so do our feelings flitter
at whim and mercy
of the uncertain ocean of life
bound by the ropes of desire
to inevitable pain

if only we see the truth,

to see the scattered treasures
but to claim them not ours
to see the moods of the ocean
but to see them not permanent
then, and only then
the bliss of true peace is ours

My mind is filled with questions
with ‘what ifs’ and what should have happened

In a flipped universe what would have been the notion?
Would we be together or would I still be the only one with emotion?

There is a sleep so light
that it rests upon my brow
ever so careful no to slip into my eyes
and I hear its laughter
on my thoughts that have no meaning
or reason
And when it notices
my tears
it takes pity on me
and holds my eyelids down
with the weight of its love
That’s how morning comes
and finds me,
clinging to the sleep,
clinging to the life,
that will soon leave me.

I’m dearly clinging to The Cross
of Christ, as though this Life
depends on it; with these empty
hands there’s no gain, but loss

since Salvation can’t be earned.
The vanity of accomplishments
and earthly achievements mean
nothing, seeing that it’s burned

up within the crucible of works.
My Hope remains in Christ alone
and the commitment of His Word;
I’m not motivated by a knee ****

reaction to lies from His enemy.
Therefore, I’ll remain vigilant,
confident and sober, knowing that
on Christ, I will always rely!

"The Bark"


Illusion pales reality
Clinging fires the heart
Intensity raptures the moment
And we play with the ghosts of the bark

"10 W 4 mw"

I see you   in the past
I want you  now

Sharp sighs and the smell of coffee,
It filled the cold morning air
Of my small room in the apartment.
Grey filled the shadows of my face,
As I hugged myself on the spring bed.

I hadn't been feeling well that morning.
Maybe it was because the old woman
That lived beside me was smoking,
Slowly filling her apartment with tobacco
Instead of cats that meowed gently.

I didn't feel like going out.
Maybe it was because room 7 was open
And out came the strong figure of a man;
A man that'd left his children and wife
I was scared that I'd hear the sobs
Of his little young'uns and his wife
Again for the 5th time, and I'd break.

I didn't want to open my blinds.
Perhaps it was because my apartment was right across room 10,
Housed by a lone boy in his teens.
And maybe if I had open my blinds,
I might have seen his blue glassy eyes
That sobbed for the warmth of
The childhood he had missed and lost.
I swear I heard him howl last night.

I didn't even bother to dress up.
I knew I wasn't going anywhere,
Especially when it was room 5's time,
To remove her dainty mask and honour the drunken sailor's days
By cussing out her only child
And leaving scars in his heart
That no amount of candy would fix.

Don't get me started on room 1.
Oh, room 1, a poète maudit.
There she lays all day in her gown,
Sipping coffee and listening to bicker,
Scooping ideas to weep on paper.
Room 1 had problems of her own,
But she wouldn't dare to confront them.
Not today, at least, room 1 was tired.
Nonetheless, today, room 1 was very observant.

It was a strange small apartment.
It specialized in crazed sane people,
People that didn't grow up too well.
People that weren't quite broken,
But weren't quite fixed either.
They were often cracking under
The own weight of their sins and flaws
But they managed to wake up everyday
And maybe.. Just maybe think
"Today, I'm going to fix myself."

Maybe tomorrow, the old lady would decide to get a bit of fresh air.
Maybe next week, room 7's door will close shut again and ooze with love.
Maybe next month, the kid would've decided to make use of his mouth
And scream "I've had enough!"
He'd bring his mother to tears -
Because that's what she wanted;
For him to stand up for himself.
Maybe next year,  the young teen would pick up his school bag and live his life.
Maybe a month after that year, the poet would've shared a masterpiece.
Maybe by then we'd all have lived better lives and left the apartment.

But today was not the day.
Today nobody had thought to fix themselves.
Today everybody clung to this strange place.

-M.M