Grey skies
hanging heavy
winter calls
as the wind howls
through secret gaps
in the window frames

The day has become
like our passing years
not bright enough
a little harsh
and willing to leave us cold

Life has not been kind
we deserve so much more
but still
we hang in there
wounded soldiers
learning to lay our weapons low
time teaching us
there is more to life
than waging war

This day
this beautiful moment
is all that matters
to be sitting here with you
a glowing fire
warm soup
loving food
while we talk and laugh
of the days gone
days to come
grand illusions of the world
and all those things
we now understand

Sympathy
is all that matters
revealing
knowing
sharing
serving each other
with simplicity
our souls nourished
by the healing soup of life

Troublesome love . . .

will not let you sleep . . .

Sort of like a basketball game . . .

Questions are bounced mad and furiously
against the hard wood floor with only
more questions bouncing back .

Meanwhile someone is trying to steal
your dreams causing you to twist and turn distorting your image .

And you fight your way down
the court of life and toss your hopes and
dreams into the air and pray to God . . .
go in.

The Oppression of my people
can not be summed up in one word

A word that flies
Flies like a hummingbird

He eats soup
As I cry

he prays
As I sigh

You Do not KNOW ME
You only know my struggle

How Dare You come to me?
In your time of Need.

You need a fixin?
God Bless Juan Dixon.

A good metaphor for life is a man trying to eat soup out of a spaghetti strainer
He goes super fast
Cause hes trying to get the good stuff
But no matter how much he gets
He just ends up with a bunch of soup off over his pants
And then he dies of old age eventually

I am not good at metaphors.

Tania slurps her cheap beer and uncrosses her legs,
exposing fresh bruises from the soup factory.
She outlines them in marker and draws
a smiley face on one located on her right thigh.
These bruises tell me that my life is composed
almost entirely of bad decisions, she says,
replacing the cap on the marker. I ask how
a decision could form such a perfect,
purple circle. Between swallowing
beer and peering into the rain,
she burps. I can't say, but--
I mean, do you want
to have ***? Later on
I drive her to the
hospital and I visit
a therapist. For
a few months.

******* there is

hot soup all over my legs

what is even life

it feels like the blood inside my veins is moving like quick dry cement does ten hours after it's poured
simultaneously a storm brews in them
similar to how mom once brewed soup that tasted of distanced family and bile
bile which still resides in a clump at the back of my throat from the last time i said your name
you are he-who-shall-not-be-named since saying your name is as dangerous as saying Voldemort’s
monochromatic colour schemes make up my world, each day either tinted or shaded
usually shaded because I was told that dark colours are slimming and that thought never left my mind
rain smudges all of the pigments together and even my glasses can't correct my vision
i love rain but my rainbows are always brown-black
like those karate belts you had when you lived
or how she used to mix all of her playdoh together
i used to believe that she created the world that way
god i wish i was right.