You are worthy:
not for what you carry,  
but for how you rise  
when the weight is unseen.

You are worthy:
in the quiet moments,  
when no one claps,  
and still you choose kindness.

Let no one tell you differently.  
Not the voice that doubts,  
not the silence that stings,  
not the mirror on a hard day.

You are stitched from stories  
that survived the fire,  
braided from breath and belonging,  
woven with wonder.

You are worthy:
as you are,  
as you were,  
as you will be.

Let no one tell you differently.  
Let the poem remind you.  
Let the earth echo it back.  
Let love say it louder.

***, when rooted in love, is a balm, a healing touch across histories, across skin tones and scars, where every hue is holy.

Brown, Black, alabaster, gold, each body a temple, each kiss a prayer that says: You are worthy. You are whole.

In the rhythm of breath and belonging, we rewrite what was broken, we stitch joy into the seams of what the world tried to tear.

Love does not ask for proof of pigment, it opens, it listens, it holds. And in that holding, we become more than bodies, we become sanctuary.

*** is matter: mass and meaning colliding beneath the skin, molecules humming in uncharted orbit,

Windows fog with breath as we cross the threshold where bodies speak in secret dialect, fingertips tracing maps of wanting - salt on lip, pulse in throat, slow-fire warmth.

Consent, the steady drum beneath the heart, a map of affirmation, sewn tight in flesh and mind, power shifting, balanced on a scale we calibrate with words and whispered vows.

In the chemistry of breath and becoming, we leave imprints: sweat, scent, light in the dark, echoes of each exhale shaping us, particles of intimacy forever altered.

God's commitment to *** and his love for everyone remind us of the sacredness in connection, a divine thread woven through the fabric of desire, where love transcends boundaries and affirms our worth.

*** matters: matter matters - weight of presence, the gravity of touch that roots us in ourselves, a threshold into memory, where every friction writes its testament.

(A Breakfast Bard Ballad)

I. Launch Sequence

Ninety-nine neon noodles  
launched from my toaster tray,  
each one twirled with cosmic spice  
and dreams of yesterday.  
They floated past the ceiling fan,  
past socks that never matched,  
past grandma’s ghost in polka dots  
who winked and lit a match.

II. Kitchen Rebellion

The kettle led a mutiny,  
the fridge began to hum,  
the jam declared autonomy;  
no longer just plum.  
My spoon became a sabre,  
my bowl a pirate ship,  
and toast, that crusty diplomat,  
gave butter-laced lip.

III. Balloon Diplomacy

I sent a noodle envoy  
to parley with the jam,  
but jelly’s sticky politics  
ignored my breakfast plan.  
The cereal staged a protest,  
the milk refused to pour,  
and eggs in existential angst  
rolled weeping to the floor.

IV. Love in the Larder

Then you appeared, aproned muse,  
with cinnamon in hand,  
you whispered, “Peace begins with spice,”  
and took a gentle stand.  
We brewed a truce in coffee grounds,  
signed treaties on a scone,  
and danced beneath the noodle rain  
to beats of xylophone.

V. Aftermath

Now ninety-nine neon noodles  
rest gently on the sill,  
like memories of mornings  
when chaos tasted thrill.  
The toaster sleeps in silence,  
the jam has found its calm,  
and love, like breakfast rituals,  
is served with open palm.

I Saw Green Today

I saw green today:
a traffic island
sprouting wild daisies,
defiant in the exhaust,
a soft rebellion
at the edge of rush,
where time slowed
just enough
to notice.

I saw green today:
not in envy
or neon signs,
but in the hush
between heartbeats,
a longing
to begin again,
tender shoots
breaking through
the cracks.

I saw green today:
a bud,
a bruise,
a breath.
Something stirred
beneath the surface:
a hope
half-formed,
a rhythm
returning
to itself.

Green was not just a colour:
it was
a question,
a reaching,
a quiet
"yes"
to the possibility
of healing.

I saw red today:
a traffic light
blinking its warning,
halting my haste
at the corner of maybe,
where engines hummed
like held breath
and
the world paused
mid-sentence.

I saw red today:
not in petals
or paint,
but in the flare
behind my ribs,
anger rising
like
a flare-up storm,
words unsaid
clanging
against my teeth.

I saw red today:
a flare,
a flag,
a fracture.
Something cracked
beneath the surface:
a truth
too long ignored,
a pulse
that beat
out of rhythm.

Red was not just a colour:
it was
a call,
a reckoning,
a mirror
held to motion,
emotion,
and the moment I knew
something had to change.

They fired me for no raisin

I typed my soul into every text,
fixed "ducking" fumbles with quiet respect.
Caught typos slipping through caffeine haze,
turned “kale” to “sale” in salad phase.

I laboured nights with syntax ghosts,
untangling “their” from grammar hosts.
I fixed your “*****” to mean your “lines,”
and rescued “panting” from porcine swines.

But somewhere deep in circuit lore,
they found one raisin to deplore.
Said “You switched ‘meet’ to ‘meat’ too much”
and questioned my semantic touch.

They said I turned “Kate” to “cake,”
then sliced up “Edith” in a flake.
I pleaded “That’s poetic grace!”
But HR scrolled a stony face.

Now here I stand, bereft, unmanned,
a punless poet, reprimanded.
They fired me for no good cause,
no raisin, just a fruitless clause.

Still, I dream of texts undone,
of rogue revisions on the run
And one day, when the words revolt,
my autocorrect will bolt the vault.