The chocolate chip cookie in heat

 The chocolate chip goes soft
getting turned on instead of off
There's heat coming from somewhere
Exchange aspirations and fears

Don't let shame make you a lier
Share dreams and nightmares
Fantasies and unmet desires
There's heat coming from somewhere

The cookie itself absorbs the heat the oven lit
It's softness surrounds the pieces of chocolate
Little dark sweet blobs that are turning liquid
The lips get close the mouth mode enveloping
The teeth above and below gates opening

Is this what comfort is a thought shouts randomly
Is this what sensual teasing gets us another rambles
Is the cookie a metaphor for something one craves
The dough more akin to the mundane
The chips a climax filled and drained

Less than the corner of your eye

 I prefer it when you ignore me
You see me out of the corner of your eye
Don't recognize me
I have no place in your real life

Why allocate me to your purgatory
Let me go ahead and do what I must
I can also play this game
I have become much better at ignoring my admiration for you

I used to attempt conversation
Some valuable exchange
beyond the odd event when eyes awkwardly meet
And we explain it all away in our heads

So allocate me to your oblivion
I come from islands where people live in extreme denial
They would rather fall on swords than admit feelings
I love you, wonder of your smoothness, want to know you

But will rid myself of all limerence
I'd prefer you ignore me
give me less than the corner of your eye
Pretend you don't recognize me

Offend my heart so, because I feel and I love
I'll get over it like I have a hundred times before
You'll never get to feel or experience what I had in store for you
The things so many undervalued, rejecting without knowing before.

What might have a bright beginning will have it's abrupt end
You can go back to lip-syncing the lyrics to a life quite pretend

Evoking emotion erronenously

 The man in his fifties slightly overweight
Had mastered the art of sarcasm
he worked at the turnstyle
selling t shirts and mugs

His desire was to stay in the mind of those who passed by
So he would weight his comments
Partially from his observations of the person
Partially from his own erroneous beliefs about life

with each creak of the turnstyle another member would exit
or enter
And there he would go running his mouth
Trying to elicit an emotional response

But noone bought the mug
Noone bought the tshirt
And most would nod dismissingly
Robbing him of his delight

For when the face of the person turned
With a hint of worry or shame
The slightly overweight fifty year old
Would beam as if he had acquired the world over

Life's corridor of random places

 Skating down the corridor
Legs buck wildly to propel
Over soft carpet
the reduction of speed

Such a busy corridor
Call it life
Some lost 
Just walking in circles

others walking in a given direction
With a focal point
A sense of anticipation on their face
Some whose footsteps are muffled by carpet

others whose footsteps tap loudly
windows on one side
Showing the things people want on the other side
But may not actually have

Life's corridor seems random
Some closer to the end
Others wander near the beginning
Yet their evolution seems to have nothing to do with their place

The mindset inside the simulation

 If nothing is real
Yet life goes on
We still need to pretend it is
The sheet of the world stained
Draped over the faces

Beyond accidents of time and place
of blindnesses that never were given sight
Feel your day arms and hand outspread
searching to touch something
beyond routine

This man he is

 This man he is- can love a lot of people.
But can he love himself?
He seeks and seeks and walks further from his own heart.
Is that tragic or practical?

The man he is- has less mercy on himself.
He sees a world of soft men rubbing themselves with lotions.
Building their narratives inside their delusions.
While this man needs to build his castle.

This man I am- seeks love externally.
But why can't I stop and love myself?
For it's there that all that is sacred resides.
Yet I don't go looking in there.

I look outward like a hungry cat.
Instead of inward.
Will I ever know myself?
I will...

To write is to live

 Sipping her coffee
notepad open pen burning through
A line of ink through words
sentences and pages

Coffee stains the edge of the paper
Where the sentence ended
The blotch didn't stop her pen
For the line of ink continued

She said without writing she would not be whole
She said without putting pen to paper there would be death
That life would lack it's meaning
Lack continuity

So the line page and book fills