at the first encounter, i thought, that he stole my mother’s tablecloth,
and called it Great while she turned the flour into bread,

after, i thought, what if they were lovers, and shared the same tablecloth
while my father was sweating in his fields, and she was sipping wine from her grapes
when he wrote songs of despair, as they could not have each other,

i shake away my childish thoughts and doubt even more:
- what if they were traders,

trading the tigers, the bread,
the tyrants, the grim teeth,
the wine fields and hard eyes,
the lamb, the onions,
the hunger and the thirst,
the hours of eating the strawberries
and the blossoms on the great tablecloth.

oh, i am childish,
jealous,
curious, and can not stop the thought of stolen tablecloths:
- what if when sad and lonely he put a spell on my mother?
and used her as a tablecloth for those who never loved, or cried,
and those who never turned the flour into bread.

Boy.
You are atrocious;
You are belligerent.
You cocky thing.
You disgust me.

Boy.
You are revolting;
You are untrustworthy.
You are not deserving of my time.
You are worthless.

Don't you dare come back to me.
I won't let you in.
Don't you dare try for me.
I can't let you in.

Boy.
You are idiotic,
Chaotic,
And the least exotic.

You are flour in the kitchen.
You are dandelions blowing in the wind.
You are useless.

You're the puppet now, and
I hold the strings.

You're the bell,
And I'm the freedom that shall ring.

You are nothing if I say you're nothing.
You're something until I give you something.

I created you.
I designed you.
I gave you life.

Don't you dare make me take it away.
Because, boy, I will.

A little bit of sugar
a tiny pinch of salt
A couple of spoonfuls of cinnamon.
I single chocolate drop
throw it in some flour
and add a cup of milk
That is how you bake something
I hope that it did help.

Now mix the ingredients, until they blend so well
and you'll have a mixture
that looks as delicious as it smells.
Then put it in the oven
set it to bake
take it out when the timer dings
and you'll have yourself a cake.

hot butter strolls down my face
and rolls down my nose
dribbles down my chin
and spatters the floor
the lustrous linoleum

i cry tears of sugar
it tastes much too sweet
as they mix with my thoughts
and pour into the cracked bowl
the jaded green memory

my hands are matted with white
and caked with delight
but it's a less-than-pleasant mess
i've used too much
it called for just a teaspoon

Dust gathers on the shelf,
To fill the empty spaces.
There is a time and place,
To accept final defeat.
She survived the lions den.
Dancing the dance with her sisters
To the tune of hypocrisy.
A masquerade to mislead them all.
The crime of the century, is still written on her ageless face.
She blows smoke in their eyes,
In order to restore the humanity in her weakened faith.
You can taste the sweetness in the words she speaks.
She can mask her misery better than frosting can cover a cake.

I'd silt there beside a barb wired fence
and once praised these vagaries again
then yesterday at daybreak  
as aft-dew came this flow-r  
and hit hers in between rows of attire
where her beauty was herd in raindrops today
and altogether was something very big
with milk and honey in a market of wares.

Wilting
A beautiful word with a tragic tale
It paints such a fatal scene
On the tip of your tongue
Every time its whispers escapes your lips reach

Like a blue orchid petal
Falling to its elegant doom

A piece of a sapphire whole
Once glowing with delirious charm
Now shriveled and grey

Every detail of its fall
Is traced by the sound of the word
Every motion of its tips
Every step of its tragic dance
Is woven within its syllables
Wilting