Sunday, June 10

the second poem i’ve written ever

this is a birthday gift
dedicated to the two people who are struggling to bake the perfect tart, may it ba esweet or savoury ones. because we know how fucking hard it is to bake the perfect pastry, and we’ve once almost burned a kitchen down. several kitchens, actually. 

Like tarts, sweet
Like tarts, savoury
As flexible
As different
As similar
They are

The pastry,
So tough when 
The fingers tap lightly.

So easy to crumble
Buttery, flaky

An ooze of flavour
Soft, sweet, beautiful
When they dance

The perfect tarts
Leaving the tastebuds
Craving, lusting
For more
Of this Joy
Of this Beauty

When you take another bite
Into a hard, 
Unwilling, overcooked, 
Pastry shell

It knocks you
To a deep, dark corner

What once so mesmerizing
Once so comforting 
Once so bountiful
Bites you back
Leaves you wounded
Makes you question

Where did it go wrong?

The pain
Does not wash away
With teeth throbbing,
You, We
Push to make another batch

More butter?
More flour?
More love?

Through it all
The beauty
The ugly
The pain
The glory

Tarts remain tarts
Still known for its

Forever holding on
To its origin

Although we endanger ourselves and possibly everyone around us with the heat in our ovens, at this very moment- I wouldn’t want to cook in any other kitchen, with any other chef.
happy birthday, you


Saturday, May 26

its another one of those nights again, where I just feel like I’m going insane. and then I realise its me, I’m the problem. and I’ve always been the problem. And i want to scream and lash out but as I’ve incessantly been told and constantly made aware, that if anyone deserves my crap, its me. no one’s gonna tolerate you and your emotions, or lack there-of, or simply the lack of control over it. So fucking suck it up and get on with it. Or at least, just suck it up.