What’s the difference between pleasure,
happiness and passion?
Is one about cooking for yourself
the other having friends over for dinner
a third maybe feeding the homeless?
The most difficult meal to prepare
is the one where you open
the doors to a bare pantry and
must figure out where you left
those ingredients of yourself
fast approaching their
expiration date
up all night writing because I wanted some sparkling revelation to offer this morning but words failed and I have nothing to show but the sloppy stains of scribbles and cross-outs maybe I'll learn som
truth aches when an overread book is continually misunderstood or when a love that needs to shout is left to linger unspoken on lips
to this swirling existence we write about so why not dabble in the dialect and points of view? use solitary clouds and footprints fresh stains and old smells the embraces of snakes turn words upside d