Just a cat

I’m just a kitten to you, aren’t I?
I’ve been so proud of my claws and fangs
I forgot that I’m still something small
That looks fluffy and adorable to you,
But you could grab the scruff of my neck,
Pick me up and throw me across the room
If I ever sank those tiny claws too much.
I forgot you were just indulging me
While I purred what I thought were roars,
And batted so viciously at things
That you had made sure in advance
Could never strike back at me.
I forgot that for all my ‘hunting’ skill
I come back to the bowl you fill for me,
And rub against your legs for attention.
I just forgot. I’ve grown, indeed,
From the little ball of fur you first saw
To something that does have fangs.
But I think my eyes only grew now
Because I just realized what I am.
A Bengal – but the cat, not the tiger.
You were the latter. I looked at you
And let the similarities fool me,
Believed my spots to be the real deal
And thought myself already a leopard.
But that’s ok. I’m still growing.
You never know what I’ll end up becoming.
Or maybe I’ll become wiser instead,
And learn to purr and look adorable
Before I launch straight for the eyes
Of those who I fool into approaching.
I only mustn’t forget that I’m just a cat.


Good for you

The warmth grows with the flush,
Spreading down to your core
And it should be uncomfortable
But it’s a bit like getting a hug,
You forget for a moment
That you need your blanket
And to burrow in its dark security.
The liquid should sting maybe,
But you actually revel in the water,
Its steady flow calming
And the cold air on your wet face
Is a soothing kind of meditation.
And you moan and gasp for breath
But there’s words beneath there,
And it’s the first time in forever
That you actually let them out,
And their release more than makes up
For the pain of their escape.
We are conditioned to avoid pain,
But it’s tiring to keep pushing down,
The pressure steadily increasing.
Every once in a while,
It might be good to let yourself fall
To the depths of your personal abyss,
Get reacquainted with what lives there,
And after you understand them,
Make order from within.

Sometimes, crying is good for you.

A kind spirit

Do you think you could judge genies like humans?

Do you think they would be powerful? Intelligent?

Surely they need power to turn wishes true.

But then again, if they’re so skilled,

How could a mere lamp keep them chained?

Do you think they would be bad?

So many creatures turn wishes against you,

And you need the protection of exact phrasings.

Do you think they resent their deal with you,

Their imposed servitude? Maybe they’re bored.

Maybe it’s in their ‘terms and conditions’,

And that’s just how they operate,

Good little machines with nothing to say.

Or maybe, just maybe, they are indeed evil.

But I don’t know. I don’t buy it.

There are so many different legends,

Genies, and witches, elves and talking fish,

Creatures of unimaginable power,

And out of any occupation in the world,

They spend their immortal lives

Asking favours from humans in exchange for wishes.

What if. They never needed the help.

What if. Some of them weren’t just bored.

What if that creature that stories taught you

To be so terribly wary and afraid of

Is nothing more than a kind spirit.

Maybe they stuff themselves in those lamps,

Place themselves on your fishing hooks,

Twist their legs intentionally in your path.

Maybe they just desperately want to help,

And some universal law says they can’t,

Says they would tip the balances too much

Were they to share their power freely.

Maybe they can only do it as exchanges,

And they silently beg you to be a good person,

And they cringe and regret when you’re not,

When you get greedy or botch up the terms.

Maybe they’re all just kind spirits.

Wouldn’t that make quite a difference?


But then again, maybe they’re not,

And they look for a reason to eat you for dinner.

My life is better for having met you

I was hiding in a little room,

In a land that spoke in strange tongues.

You extended a hand, dragged me to light,

And taught me those new, twisted words,

Not by bringing in scholars or masters.

You just spoke soft enough, slow enough,

That I saw them in a different way,

And finally stopped being afraid.

The mirror was showing me such monsters.

Before you, I never realized that

It was actually only broken.

You didn’t tell me that, but I saw you

Looking into it once, and you

Angled yourself in such a strange way,

Something I never saw anybody do.

So I tried the same, and I found

The little smooth part of the glass,

And suddenly I was beautiful too.

You never changed anything,

But that didn’t stop you

From changing everything for me.

You never did anything,

But that didn’t stop things

From happening to me anyway.

You don’t have to have done something.

It’s just the way you are,

And what I understood of what you are,

And just a whole lot of luck in between.

So through no fault of your own,

My life is better for having met you.

Thank you. For your simple existence.

Only joking

Words spoken at the limit between joke and truth,
So many things that can be told in jest.
Maybe I go too often for that particular excuse,
The fast, convenient defence of ‘I’m joking’.
But don’t judge me. I’m really not lying
Because, you see, all the truths I have to say
Are too heavy to carry around all the time
So I make them buoyant and light with a twist,
And shed my expectations of them away.
But don’t misunderstand. Every single word
That leaves my lips has been considered,
And even the most ridiculous proposals
Have a clearly-defined seed of pure truth.
It’s so much easier to say the things you need
When only a slight inflection of your voice
Makes sure that no one ever believes
Or comes to poke holes to your realities.
But never take that bet with me, love,
I will stand behind each and every one of my words
Because underneath that convenient facade
I mean everything I’ve ever joked about.

Open book

Sure, you’re an open book
Crypted thrice over
In a language no one but you knows.

Sure, you’re completely transparent
The same way the ocean is
So you only see inches below the surface.

Sure, everything is crystal-clear
The refracting kind of crystal
So you find anything but its depths.

Sure, you can say you’re simple
Like quantum physics is
But only before you learn basic algebra.

You’re right about one thing though.
You’re impressively naive,
If you think I’d be naive enough
To fall for any of that.
You better watch out, love.
You’ll be in a world of trouble
The second I break your code.


It’s said that all creative minds
Entertain multiple representations of all things –
That’s the only way to give birth to unique perspectives,
Having random things bubble and mix and blow up
In an array of colours and metaphors.
The minds of artists have voices recounting truths, realities,
That their imagination then compounds on, shoots out from,
In ever more complicated fantasies.
There are also voices whose sole purpose is to keep track
Of which voice does what, of inner workings, and make sure that
Fantasies land on paper, in stories, paintings, sculptures,
And they don’t interfere with function in the real world.
There are times, however, when the real world is ugly,
So you tighten the fantasies around you,
Breathe them in, burrow in their warmth and security,
And shut down the voices telling you it’s wrong.
It might be surprising, that something as slippery as obsession
Starts with a conscious decision. But it does.
Like going down a slide, you need an impulse to get it started.
You need to choose to shut down the realities,
And you ignore that aching awareness sounding an alarm.
You pick and choose. You only hear the nice fantasies.
And, with no other raw material, your mind doubles them up,
Compounds on them instead of tempering them down.
It becomes a self-fulfilling spiral of quicksand,
Creating just enough satisfaction by its mere existence
To keep itself going. It’s overwhelmingly much,
Yet it’s achingly little, making you throw yourself desperately
Over unrealistic things, trying to soothe the growing need.
It’s painful, yet when the world delivers, my…
There’s no bliss quite as strong as feeling the worlds collide,
Sending the shock waves of the contact down your soul.
So you throw yourself harder down the next spiral.
It’s just a mistake, you see. A coping mechanism gone wrong
Though can you even claim it is wrong if it does its job?
Because it does tie you over the rough patch,
Your mind so full with your fantasies it’s numb to pain.
Sometimes, when you’re paying enough attention to the process
You can even trick it into becoming an absurd motivation
That walks you up the hill you so happily slid down before.
And when you’re strong enough, you can always disengage,
Get to your feet, breathe out the quicksand,
Shake the clingy bits of obsessions off you
And convince yourself you’ve got everything handled.
This, of course, until the next long stairway
To the bottom of the ravine we call life…
When you are more than happy to push yourself down the next slide.