Love Can Now See; He Wants Everything.

"Bouquet' by an unknown artist

Love is not blind anymore;
I worry about the things he can see.
He does not want to talk some more;
he wants me in bed on three.
I consciously mask my imperfections
so he’ll choose and stay with me.
He says my boobs and butt are small;
I think about increasing them by three.
Our boat is on rough seas
but all he wants to do is flee.

He says he wants freedom, 
and she’s not me.

Requited lust.
Unrequited love.
It’s interesting how the lines between love and lust have been skewed.



The Art of Stephen Hamilton

Protect me from life’s vanities;
guard my soul against its insecurities.
Whenever my heart goes weary and weak,
Mother, protect me from myself.

Against depression and its similarities,
in my spirit, build immunities.
Make me make a world a better place,
and breastfeed me yourself.


I’ve Carried Me for Years, My Darling


“Two Eggs (violet)” by Tom Gregg

In a world were most of us, eggs,
have been taken away from our innocence,
removed from the bosoms of our mothers,
placed outside our crates
and forced to harden up,
I want to remain as I am, as I was,
in this terribly hot conditions.
Why don’t you remain raw with me, my darling?

Although we’ve been terribly hurt,
I’ll roll to you,
and you’ll roll to me,
and when we do,
we’ll close our eyes and
swim in each other’s insides,
roll in each other’s albumen,
bungee jump on each other’s yolks.

Do you remember how you felt
the first time you were in love?
I beg you to let me love you.
I’m not going to hurt you;
I don’t want to.
Look into my eyes.
Can’t you tell that I terribly love you?
Why don’t you be vulnerable too?


When Life Gives You Melons…

When life gives you melons,
don’t confuse them for lemons:

Melons Painting

Ovanes Berberian (American, born in 1951)- “Still Life Saturday with Melons”

It’s for your good. Melons are juicy and yummy, although they don’t look like they are on the outside. When you cut them in half? Hmmn…

Not everything is planned to give you a sour life. God/the universe will always find a way to put you in the right place, whether you think it’s the right place at first or not.

Life gives you/lets you keep lemons when it lets you have the things you don’t need anymore, whether it be people or properties or positions of comfort or a kind of peace that might lead to sorrow eventually.

Persevere and endure the painful process of cutting things in half, and into different shapes, when life gives you melons. They are not lemons. You’ll see.


We Walk Different Paths

Roses are red;
violets are blue.
I mind my business,
and so should you.

Don’t compare anyone’s life to yours. You either get an ego boost or you get your ego deflated. Neither is good.


Man’s Relationship with Money: a Mess



Update: I mean “man”, as in, man and woman- humans. We live in a “the richer you are, the better you are” world, and it shouldn’t be so. Someone has reblogged this, gone a little wild, and argued that men make money to attract gold-diggers- women- and I am sitting here, stunned, wondering what the hell is going on…


The Wounded Healer

Her words are deep, and perhaps, far too deep, because they do not come from her heart. She writes and speaks with passion only because her words come from the pitch of her stomach. As these words travel up her torso, they avoid her heart like a plague.


“Yemoja” [Artist Unknown]

Her heart is severely wounded, so she strives to protect her words from blood stains. She chooses not to release the words that live in her heart because they are filled with pain.

She is hurt
and she is weak
and she is dying slowly,
but it’s not for her listeners who need healing to see…


Sunny Moon. Moony Sun.

She’s like the sun.
You go too close to her, and you burn.
You go too far away from her, and you freeze to death.

She’s like the moon.
You go too close to her, and you go blind in your fantasy.
You go too far away from her, and you can’t dream.

You stay right where you should be,
and she glows for you.
She’s half-sun and half-moon.
Half-sun and half-moon.


Push Through

This is the legend of Gbàdà,
the favourite of his former owner.

One day, his chains were removed,
and he was declared a free man.
In excitement, he began to dance,
on the broad road by the plantation,
all day, and all night,
and he hasn’t stopped since then.
He doesn’t know where home is;
he doesn’t know what home was.

He’s been released, but he’s not free yet;
he’ll be free when he stops dancing.
The blindfold’s off but he can’t see yet;
he’ll see when he stops laughing,
when he stops crying,
when he starts moving,
when he starts trying.

Maybe one day, he’ll get home,
if he doesn’t dance himself to death.
The name “Freeman” is as bad as “Ransome”;
he needs very thorough rebirth.


Life is

Life is a gift;
enjoy the present.