Mildew on the porch,

Wet floor boards,

Encircled hearts engraved in the wood.

Steam rises above the bowl of porridge

Warmth spreading throughout her hands

Travelling through the lines who’ve known old age.

Droplets parachuting down onto his head:

A little boy.

She has her left hand up,

Pats his hair.

There, there.

It’s just a little rain.

The sky meshes with the porridge

And the steam;

A tango of difference yet similarity.

At some point,

The door will creak,

Once the hours pass.

The sky will be left outside.

And by the fire,

The drops will cease to echo

In the creases of the patio.

Then when she’s turned to dust and flown away,

Steam will rise from porridge bowls again

A certain pitter patter will come back -

Blaring -

It’ll be for her.

For how she sat on the mildew stained porch.

Droplets will fall into the bowl,

Yet the spoon will still reach his lips,

The sky having mixed with the sugar,

And he’ll say:

Really, it’s just a little rain.

She had poisonous fingers and sharpened nails made to slice.

You thought walking alleys was a good idea at night time.

You had locs so long and and persona so bright.

I was searching for a new name and quite frankly, a new life.

Your day had come, but I can't say I had nothing to do with it.

I knew her and had asked her to be the culprit.

So now your name is mine - my new identity seems fit.

Your story ended, so I will rewrite it.

You've contradicted yourself again

Snowy gifts float from the skies

Perform their routines in the palms

Of children's hands

I wish I could say thank you

And be grateful for the beauty

But the show's stale

I've seen it a million times

Would it hurt you so

To reward us with sunshine?

It's been too long

Since I've smelled the fog

Been blindsided by distractions

A clear head makes for great desicions

But stop every once in a while

And lose yourself in the fields

Just to expererience the satisfaction

Of finding your way out again.

two peas in a pod,

except one is missing.

odd numbers are dangerous

when she has no one else.

how many options does she have

if no one chooses her?

walls protect hearts

so there won’t ever be a best friend.

flips her hair and raises her hand

when she hasn’t got a partner.

out of three,

who will lose?

two peas in a pod,

except one rejects the other.

You ever feel like a total alien?

Like you’re only pretending to be human?

Like you’re just mimicking whatever ‘human’ behaviours are expected of you?

I feel like everybody will probably experience this at some point in their lives, whether it's for a few months, years or a mere couple hours.

It’s odd.

. . .

But a little bit cool at the same time.

It kind of feels like you exist in a different realm, and you’re just peeking into human life. Gathering whatever information you can, so you can go report your findings at your fancy alien univesity later on.

I took a personality test once, turns out I’m an INTJ (I don’t really think this test is legitimate though). Apparently, INTJs usually feel like aliens a ton. So maybe that’s why.

But then again, I think everybody goes through this, so probably not.

Maybe we’re all aliens. But then wouldn’t that mean we aren’t aliens? Because an alien would imply somebody that is somehow different, right? But if we are all one thing, then nobody is different, hence nobody is an alien.

Hmmmm.

Here’s the definition of an alien:

Alien: belonging to a foreign country or nation

Now I’m even more confused than when I started writing this. That’s how I know I should stop writing . . . Also the word alien sounds so weird to me now.

It was fine at first

When the rain of their words first poured

And their insults were blades of glass

You were in the right then

Held up your umbrella above my head

Convinced the cold droplets to slide away

And now the rain has passed

But your umbrella is still held tight

I’m grateful for what you’ve done for me

But I miss my sunlight.

It'll break this time,

I saw the cracks in the story before I left.

It'll break this time,

You've mistreated it all your life.

It'll break this time,

You've ignored the callings.

It'll break this time,

You've looked past all passion.

It'll break this time,

Your poor soul is about to shatter.

I'm so sorry but

It'll break this time.

For once, let go. Let the pain slide out from your fingers like sand, breathe again. This control is killing you, so let go. With every passing minute you stay stuck clutching knives to your chest, the deeper your wounds will get. God knows the knives may be diamond encrusted, or have other superficial value to us people, but there’s more out there. You have a road, there’s a plan for you. L e t g o.

Inspired by Jeremiah 29:11