My brain is still in prayer,
Following an apology for the same sin about to be committed.
Sort of like the reflections we see amongst ourself in other people.
Pointing out only the things we see in ourselves.
That sort of stand up comic that points fun of that one guy in the front row, never really taking in consideration that same guy could be waiting on him after the show.
That cynical psychology of growing up with siblings.
Would you think twice if you seen chickens standing out of a fast food place.
The ethical influence of hunger dissipating as they
Stand there patiently waiting for the unnext best thing.
Love is relentlessly blind.
A hunger that never really seems full.
Are we the glutens chasing something without a face only knowing taste.
Staring lovingly into each other's eyes but in actuality craving chicken.
What suppresses this urge.
Besides the hope that this Sprite isn't flat

There was a time when I sat still.
Soaking in unavoidable truth.
Choosing instead to sit and bathe in a world of thought.
The sun peeked through the window, concerned by the calmness
that struck my lips.
A sudden grip of the edge of the tub over by the sink.
A witness to this random disorder of paused lips.
Each drop of water soaked, dried with a towel.
Coming to the conclusion that I myself was naive.
That the longer I stared into this mirror,
that It wasn't my reflection that I was seeking.
It was hers all along

Keep the windows open, in case it wants to fly away
maybe it is bored of playing hide and seek,
resting in between the empty spaces where even clock does not like to visit.
Keep the lids of sugar containers a little lose,
chances are, it will come back to the ones with whom it closely shares its nature,
How else did you think, there was sweetness in your life.
And do keep the inkpots full, because once it is back,
it might like to take a dip
and scamper its complaints on your skin
like tattoos, permanent tattoos.
It is love after all, and love will find a way.

But what if it does not come back?
Will you go out and look for it,
May be it is disguised in the red of the maple sitting in your garden and you thought it’s the nature,
May be these are its cold feelings soothing your sweaty temples on a hot summer afternoon – yet you moved on cursing the weather,
May be it is the warmth rising in fumes of the bonfire – but you heart is too chilled to feel it,
May be it is resting in your favorite banana walnut cake or folded in the layers of your favorite cheddar cheese risotto – but this only had to be your diet week.

Yes! You were looking, only if you knew where to look.

This time, look inside your heart.
turn off the lights….
hear your heart pounding louder, as if murmuring the prayers secretly,
feel the expanse of your lungs inside your rib-cage, airing the wings of otherwise rested butterflies,
wear its memories like a halo
and know when your feet sweep off the earth
it will arrive.
When the tears trickle from the corner of your eyes
and shine like medals of love under the moon lit sky,
when you will listen to the whispers of a quiet night,
know that it will arrive.
When you sit by the window
fingers scattered precisely to weave into its size,
lips waiting to seal the promise, no ink pots, no quills this time,
know that it will arrive.
When you are sure you don’t have to rely on the sugar containers to keep it by your side,
know that it will arrive.

And hold on this time because you must,
who knows what happens next time.

This question will be the death of me.
It's not quite where we came from last,
nor where we pay taxes.
It's not where we want to be,
or the house we grew up in, or the nostalgia we feel in some cities.
It's not where our origins trace back to,
where our ancestors developed our roots,
in fact, I'd argue
home is not an external location.
It's not the soft grass in our front yards,
it's not the countryside or cityscape,
it's not the creaky wooden floors that collected dust on our socks,
Home is a feeling.
It nests within us during our travels while we're looking for it,
it is present when we rest our head
against a sunny window in the car.
Home is in friendships where laughing makes you cry
and crying makes you laugh,
it is in fleeting romances, holding hands,
the smell of you on my pillow,
it is with certain family members.
I find home in familiar smells and easy living,
it is in solitude and fresh air.
What a feeling of comfort,
where we can grab those fleeting moments,
and stitch them together like a grandiose stained glass window in a cathedral.
Home is a compilation of every place we have ever been,
are going to go, and where we are at presently.
What makes you feel at home?

I woke up with thoughts of longing
it must have been a vivid dream
the one place where my heart wasn't empty
like a porcelain doll to a little girl
my heart ached for you  

The dust in my heart needs cleaning
for if I do not, the picture of you will fade
then I will not see your face, that face
which is so full of glorious technicolor
my heart longs for you

clear out oh the dust in my heart
so that I may once more dance to the music
so that I may once more be filled with joyous celebrations