Imaginary Tea – Own Your Perfection and Be Thankful

 I'm Going Far and Wide
I’m Not Sure What Path I’m Taking Here



I’m working on a few short stories and that’s a first for me, I usually handle one project at a time because I thought it allowed me to “give it my best”, but that means I kill ideas because I don’t feel “ready” to flesh them out and that could be a cop out (most likely is). So right now, I am trying to tweak three stories for my first collection of short stories and I’m working on two half stories that involve running away and travel but they are so raw, I have no idea where they are going.

But I digress, today I am sharing two videos because last week I didn’t put up a post. And this week I am typing this while drinking a cup of green Japanese tea. My stash is almost done, nooooo!

First up: When Your Boyfriend Asks You to Strip For Him . Oh my word! Can I just say how much I ‘gasmed over this? I honestly don’t even know. I felt my stomach lurch and my heart flutter when she reached the end, and I swore at her… many times! How dare she make me feel all these damn emotions! Granted I re-watched it multiple times and shared it with everyone I know who would share my feelings. Why don’t we (women) love ourselves more? Why do we project our (imagined) faults onto our partners? I sadly find it very easy to depreciate myself in front of other people especially my physical appearance (not my mind, since I am posting its produce here, overinflated view of my mental abilities). My flesh and bone is “distinctly average” and sometimes I find it hard to believe someone would think I am the sexiest woman in the world because… “c’mon!” Like this morning, I was trying out some yoga and I noticed cellulite on a part of my thigh that I didn’t know it collected and cringed but was fascinated by the fact that it wouldn’t matter to “my person”. Granted I haven’t shown him that particular pose so he hasn’t seen that cellu-pocket (as I like to call it) but wouldn’t it be great if we could see ourselves the way the people who love us see us? That would be amazing. Allow yourself to do that. Somehow. Don’t become an arrogant git but own your “perfection”. Coz we all have a dose of it, so don’t binge but take a sip once in a while.

The Little Things is just a reminder to keep our eyes open to the good things that people around us do. Sadly I can often “miss” the nice things and to those nearest and dearest to me, I love you spades and boatloads. I am thankful for having you in my life and even when I can’t physically help you, know that I think of you, and your nuttiness drives me and my fiction. Whether I am escaping from it or drowning in it.

Thank you so much for getting to the end, I know this is very random… watch the videos. They’ll distract you from the lack of direction going on here.

Over and Out!

Behind Your Teeth – A Poem

I want to fly away on your wings
I want to fly away on your wings

Behind Your Teeth

I hid my secrets behind your teeth
“Your heart beat drives my own”
I hid my secrets behind your teeth
“Let me go and I’m bound to fall”

You’ll never hear me speak
Of dreams I’m prepared to lose
For if I never admit it, I can pretend
That who I was, is who I am still

I tucked my secrets behind your teeth
“Your heart beat drives my own”
I tucked my secrets behind your teeth
“Let me go and I’ll not know my way home”

My need to assert myself?
Its wilting in the blaze of you
If I’m a caterpillar, then you are my cocoon
But I don’t yet know if I’m a moth or butterfly

I buried my secrets behind your teeth
“Your heart beat drives my own”
I buried my secrets behind your teeth
“My legs can no longer carry my weight alone”

There’s a part of me I’ve lost
Its stained beneath your skin
If you give it back to me
I wont know how to make it fit

I planted my secrets behind your teeth
“Your heart beat drives my own”
I planted my secrets behind your teeth
“By your side is where I belong”



Last night while convincing myself to fall asleep (its often a debate), replaying Miley’s new video Wrecking Ball, prickles of a poem began poking about in my head. People have “opinions” on the video, I LOVE the song and the “cleanness” of the video works for me. I am putting down my love. The song speaks if you allow yourself to listen.

Now, I haven’t written any fresh poetry in ages. I think my poems dried up when my sister died but I am not entirely sure because it was something we shared. I’d just been struggling to put my feelings down on paper while I dealt with the the relationship I had with her and the kind of relationship I wish we had had. There will be a post about her one of these days but for now, its just the poem. There’s nothing else I want to add because I’m feeling “prickly” and the longer I stare at it, the more likely it is that I wont hit the publish button (even though this poem is not about her, I am not a “mushy” person and this poem is bloody mushy. Dude, I hate you so much right now, you know who you are).

Thank you Miley, for helping me find some poetry again. I don’t know how or why it happened but thank you.

Over and Out!

Imaginary Tea with Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie

Ms Adichie knows something...
Ms Adichie knows something…


The video I would like to share is here;

First confession: I love Ms Adichie (I feel so cosmopolitan using Ms).

Second confession: I haven’t read any of her books (yet).

Now, seeing as I love her why wouldn’t I devour her books? After all, her art is an extension of herself and I love reading her interviews and watching her speak. (Laying on the excuses now). Well, I did come to her party late. One of my younger sister’s is into stories that have a “deeper” moral compass and if they have an African Or African-American theme even better. I bought this sister Half of a Yellow Sun as a birthday present one year and I didn’t have any intention of reading it because it was not “my thing”. I preferred either pure escapism through fantasy or history that was culturally different to my own. I found solace in gasping at the horrors other societies inflicted and didn’t want to learn any more about how African’s did it.

But the truth is, I was escaping her work because I thought it was another example of how African writers should write. Insert village, un-pronouncable (I decree that a word) names and then make the story about a struggle that usually cannot be wholly felt by most contemporary Africans. I believe we are more than that and I wanted more examples of contemporary African story telling, which I could not get anyway because I shunned stories written by African sounding names, which is terrible I know.

I stayed in my father’s village as a child one holiday (I have never had so many nosebleeds in my life but learned holding your head over burning sunflower seeds cauterizes your nostrils and stops bleeding for a few years at least), and I cannot base all my work on that one interaction when it isnt ingrained in who I am, yet any time I came across successful African writers, that is what I found. You needed it to be rural and lay it on thick. But those rural locales are where my family stems from and is a part of me but not the part that comes to mind immediately when I define myself. But this post isnt about my identity.

I feared that if I read her work, I would try and make my writing more “African” to be successful. That is not the content of the video (and you should really see it, if you haven’t), it is what I would talk to Chimamanda about if I were to share a cup of tea with her. Identity.

The video is about being a feminist. I believe generally society holds women a lot morally upright than they actually are. This post will end up being a lot longer if I keep going, and I did promise these would be short, but I will say that when the time comes for me to be a mother. I hope I do not forget that I want my sons to be as self reliant as my daughters and my daughters to be as practical as my sons. We shouldn’t continue to hold our daughters as mass nurturing mammary glands because not all women want or should be having children. I hope when my daughters are of an acceptable child bearing age that I do not suddenly expect grandbabies to fall from their wombs at the risk of their dreams. May my sons know value above financial success and most of all, may my children have a sense of humour, because they will probably need it to survive having me as their mother.

Check out her new book Americanah. I will be reading this one soon…just need to borrow it from the sister.

Over and Out!

Imaginary Tea with Anna Akana – How to be Alone

anna akana


I love characters (and people) that have something to say but don’t shove it down your throat with some kind of moral authority, add that with a quirky personality and you have my heart. Right now my major internet crush is Anna Akana, here’s her youtube page.

The video that moved me this week is here: How To Be Alone

As a child I was not a social person. I preferred my own company because it required too much effort dealing with other people and I hated small talk (still not a fan). I wanted to talk about “serious” things and other kids really didn’t, so even if I hadn’t chosen my own company, it would have been thrust upon me anyway.

One of my teachers thought I was abused at home because I was “too quiet”. My mother was grilled about my “home situation” during a PTA meeting when I was in the third grade, and afterwards asked me if I was OK (and happy). At the time I couldn’t think of why I wouldn’t be happy, everyone had problems including me but I was OK. In the end, what I took from that conversation was that I (and how I presented myself) was a problem, and I needed to fix that. My solution? Become more involved. After the third grade there wasn’t a year that I wasn’t involved in at least three extra curricular activities, in some kind of leadership role and smiled while doing it. Thing is though, I would much rather have just gone home early, read a book or written some story about something that was vaguely true and been internally satisfied. Instead I saddled myself with a perpetual people pleasing that I still struggle with. All because third graders are supposed to be noisy.

I only started fighting my people pleasing ways in university. Which isn’t really a good time to be fighting what defines you and led to my degree taking place at two universities and took twice as long to complete. Not fun when everyone has you pegged as an over achiever, so in the end, you appear to be a failure.

Letting other people’s observations become your reality is guaranteed to keep you wrapped in unhappiness. I really just should have learned how to express my desire for alone time instead of pretend I didn’t engage in it (if that doesn’t sound suggestive)…Obviously not in third grade but after then, instead of devising more methods to prove how social I was when I would rather not have been.

Over and Out!

{Imaginary} Sunday Tea

 Cozy Up!
Cozy Up!


Welcome to my weekly segment: Imaginary Tea on Sunday.

This Sunday slot is reserved for my observation on something that happened online and usually will be brief and “light”.

These posts will either have a video,music or alternative “visual” inspiration from elsewhere on the internet and not my own head.

First post coming up shortly.

Over and Out!

Surviving Marriage with a Chance of a Happy Ending





The part of the world I am from family is a big deal and I mean knowing your cousin’s cousins and their neighbour’s nephews, which wouldn’t be a problem if there weren’t so many siblings to begin with. For example, my Dad is the middle child of five children and my Mum is the eldest of eight, most of their siblings married at least once and had children… I tried to make a family tree when I was about twelve but ran out of motivation when I realised I didn’t actually know as many members of my family as I thought I did and asking my grandmother for information filled me with fear.

I am 28 years old, not married and don’t have any children. My parents line has no fresh blood in it and my Dad is getting antsy for some young ‘uns to fold into the Muchindu fabric. Being the oldest child alive it is up to me set an example (not sure I want or need to be setting examples on making babies but let’s not dwell on that). My older sister died a few years ago without any children of her own. None of my younger siblings have children and aren’t rushing towards the altar.

During my last visit to my parents farm, the subject of marriage came up (as it is prone to when your parents think you are wilting your eggs on purpose to spurn them their rightfully earned joy), and I got to really thinking about what marriage means for me. I know what I would like it to be: a partnership, a team moving in one direction towards a common goal (whatever that is, is up to the two people in the relationship because people get married for different reasons and it isn’t our place to judge them, even though judgements are a reflex reaction and will happen anyway). But I digress… Very rarely do I see examples of couples getting married because they are on the same page on what they want out of their future together. Sidenote: I attended a lovely wedding this past weekend with a bride who actually cried with joy and I have never seen that before but the couple seemed united before the wedding day and the wedding day itself didnt seem like the end of grueling planning but rather a beginning of a life together which is what I think weddings should be.I would like to wish them a long and full life ahead together.

Marriage usually happens because it is “the right time” more often than not. Either through a child that wasn’t entirely planned or the couple have been dating so long they may as well be married and decide to officiate it. Both of those scenarios don’t often have happy endings.

I realise my definition isnt romantic and makes marriage sound like work but the truth is, it is, work. It is work you choose to get into with a tag team partner you will be “stuck with” for the rest of your life, and sadly we are so focused on the wedding day we forget about what happens afterwards.  The problem with that is on a balance of equations there are too many unhappily married people giving the institution of marriage a terrible name. Random question of the day: Why do women in the movies when proposed to not react until they have seen the ring? There is rarely any evidence that the poor fellow proposing gets on his knees (in public) yet there will be zero “joy” till that box opens or is produced.

One day, I hope to get married and build plans around and with another person (as different as his opinions of those plans sometimes are), I believe in the weight of vows and the promise of eternal fidelity but its become almost “too easy” to leave a marriage than to work at making it what you want it to be.What I disagree with is the expectation that who I am needs to change because I am now a wife. I fight with that idea very strongly. Pretending to be something else shouldn’t happen with your life partner because they have more of you than anyone else. Its easy to pretend with parents because you need to keep them proud of you, or with your siblings because you want them happy or with colleagues because you dont want to get fired but with the person you want to spend forever with? Everyone else has a shift schedule with you, they really don’t.

I hate confrontation and will avoid it like its an STD infested keyboard (let that fester a minute) but when you share your life with someone, confrontation is bound to happen. Apparently, the trick is not to let it evolve into something else. Let the conversation about discarded socks in the kitchen floor be about that and ONLY THAT not about his desire to spend less time with you or his new “odd” bedroom requests (although I can see how one thing could lead to the other). You need to “nip things in the bud”, is what I am constantly advised but sadly its easy to let little things slide, because why should you sweat the small stuff or worse, nag? Unfortunately, if you wait till patterns have developed, switching out of those patterns appears like a rejection of the person you are with.

What I hope to remember the day after my wedding is, I picked the person I am now waking up next to and as wonderful as he is most of the time, there will be moments I would prefer to club him on the back of his head than talk. That’s not a problem, it makes me normal, I should just talk to him about it and not actually club him, no matter how tempting that would be. Maybe that will be my chance of a happy ending, I will still be me, he will still be him and we will now just live together and make babies.

Over and Out!

Killing My Hang Ups

Gorgeous lady but not me
Simply Cyn captures my mood in this shot and looks GORGEOUS doing it


When I started this blog, I had a schedule laid out of what I would post and how regularly I would put my overflowing ideas into the world and boy do I have ideas… If I could mine them I would be A LOT better off than I am now (because I am certain that they are valuable ideas… I may suffer from delusions of grandeur).

But then ‘Life’ got in the way (as it normally does when you are “playing” above your station), and then I started making excuses… many excuses. At first they were logical… then creative… “I can’t type right now because I am researching self publishing on amazon (by buying books)”, or “my hair is more important right now so I think I’ll embark on mini twists instead of getting another story down, besides it will allow me to think.”.

Truth is, I got scared. I put a blog out and it started getting some hits (more than three is some!), and there wasn’t any hate, a significant amount of spam but no hate, and people other than family and friends were starting to look at it. Enter Stage Fright. I was now publicly attempting to bring my dreams to life. This would mean I would now no longer have any excuse on why I wasn’t where I thought I should be. Bringing me to my hang ups… or rather the one major one.

But before that, I am not deluded to think everyone who reads what I write will like what they find, I want to be a writer but I need to do a lot of work because I am not dedicating enough time to my art and I should. This I know (“It is known”, hee hee). Its like having exams coming and not prepping but literally praying it will work out. If you don’t put in the work, how can you expect it to?

So, my major hang up. I would rather be an ace at something I hate doing than fail at something I want to be doing. This is a little crazy and counter intuitive because it leads to me cementing myself in things I don’t actually want to do. Like stay in a relationship longer than I should or study a course I didn’t really have any love for at the time (that did eventually change) and host of other oddities that I could have saved myself from that led me to being dissatisfied with what and who I am.

Failing at a desire seemed a lot less desirable than succeeding at a chore. Because you chose it as opposed to “dealing” with what was thrust upon you.

Which points out that my main fear is failure. I fear that I am ordinary. That I do not have nearly as much exposure to interesting things to make me interesting (because interesting is like a bug, you catch it and pass it along). That my life has been too comfortable to damage me into being great. I fear being mundane or *the horror*, forgettable. I want to be remembered. I want to be interesting. This in my mind would mean I matter (see above for possible delusions of grandeur).

So how do I get over my hangups and fears? I haven’t the foggiest idea. Late last year I felt the walls of boredom and inadequacy closing in so I decided I needed to make at least one dream come true. “See Japan. No excuses”. I had been thinking about it for years and every time I saved enough money something “practical” came up and it would be gone, plus I never could get enough time off work. But I got a crazy buzzing in my head that I was running out of time. I spoke to a friend and she decided to join me in my mad quest and we somehow planned a two week trip to a country we had never been to and didn’t speak the language of. And it was WONDERFUL. I would gladly go back for another trip if only to sit on benches and watch people. So next time I get a crazy desire to travel, may it be summer!

The way I am hoping to get rid of my hang ups is to voice them and then bludgeon them. It seems to be the only way. Simply refuse to be mundane and don’t forget.

This is not a particularly helpful article if you were looking for a how to but its my story. Maybe it will help you. Make one dream happen (at a time). Even if it is something as simple as saving a certain amount of money between now and the end of the year, growing a certain plant or smiling more. Its your dream. Stop with the excuses.

Bludgeon the hang ups.

Over and Out!


Love and Doing Nothing



I live with two of my sisters and I love them dearly. I am trying to figure out the best way to describe them but the only thing that comes to mind is if we were a litter of puppies, we’d all be the runt. Which defeats the purpose of a runt like description… we’re all round pegs trying to force our way into square holes. I have a brother too but seeing as he’s the wrong kind of peg for this story I need to omit him for the time being, don’t worry brother. I’ll have a post up just for you!

We suffer through each others joys, groaning on the inside because we know the value of spending time together. For example, the youngest and myself LOVE Asian pop, the middle one groans every time we squeal about a new video (right now I cant wait to share EXO’s “Wolf” video, if you haven’t seen it and Kpop is your thing, check it out). The youngest loves soppy romantic stories and vampires. The middle one and myself groan through such movies, while the youngest and I lament every time the middle one gets excited about a new fitness regime or extremely loud pants… seriously, if she could, you would HEAR her pants, but I digress (and I am not always the most common denominator).

You can “easily” lavish money on people but time, that’s a different playing field and even if the time is so miserable all you want to do is bash each other’s heads in, it still trumps not spending time together. Well, for me anyway, they may probably want to slink away but as the oldest I get commanding rights which they cannot escape {insert evil laugh}.

Its not always laughs and yoga poses in the kitchen though (that actually did happen). I have (once or twice) pretended to be asleep just so I can have a few moments of peace or pretended not to hear a call so I can have some quiet. This does not mean I love them any less but we’re not the same kind of round and sometimes that means we each need our own times and methods of re-booting.

The point of this ramble is basically to remind them and anyone reading this that simply “buying” something isn’t always enough, you need to “know” the person you live or just deal with. We are always so busy “proving” our affections with things that we don’t share ourselves. I am not a mother yet but I remember hating having to share my bedroom with my sisters. My parents forced us to share not only our bedroom but communal time as well. All I wanted was my own space, and because I am a selfish human being I still do on occasion, but being forced to smell each others morning breath and argue over underwear space I know their cries even when they aren’t being vocal about it and I also know when I am the wrong person to address their problems but knowing that you aren’t the right person doesn’t mean “do nothing”. It means find a way to help that doesn’t involve your own hand making movements, it means finding a voice to say the things you wish your voice could, it means pointing them in a direction that may be the complete opposite of yours. Love is never doing nothing, love is never being OK with a state less than contentment.

Do something.




Over and Out!

Peaches and Apples – A Short Story


Tree on the Sky byryka
Tree on the Sky by ryka

by Claudie Muchindu

I have a story to share. It’s a less than charming tale of a peach and an apple that grew in orchard and somehow got entwined.

Shall I tell you about the peach first? He is and will always be the only entity that has the power to bring her to less than she is and she has willingly given that power to him. I cannot say whether she had a choice or not but that’s often the way life works, isn’t it?

I‘m  not sure if it’s the way his mouth moves when he isn’t  speaking or the way the air around him moves to accommodate his less than natural ego. Its all of these and none. It’s the way he makes her feel together when he is around and bits and pieces when he leaves. Yet too many nights she has woken up in an empty bed because he couldn’t bring himself to spend the night with her. Too many nights she hasn’t cried because crying is beneath her but the tears have always needed to be shed. They both are what they are. They’re one and yet less then that. How can one be so powerful and yet seem so powerless?

Today will be different. She knows it will. It has to be. She knows she cannot let him put her whole self in a wringer simply by walking through the door. She wonders why she ever gave him her spare key. They pass each other in the corridors as though they were nothing more than two walls coated in different paint not seeing each other from opposite views of the same courtyard; and they might as well be. They have different paint and different textures underneath it all. He will be more than she ever can and they both know that, peaches don’t grow on apple trees and my dears, he is a peach. Apples aren’t necessarily less than peaches but they cant grow on the same branch. Late at night before she nods off she will tell herself that its still all right for them to grow in the same orchard though. There are no laws against peaches and apples in the same orchard.

‘Jon. This bed isn’t big enough for us anymore,’ she whispers. She whispers because she knows he is almost asleep. She can also tell from the line of his back that he is now wide awake. He fakes a moan and she cant resist a smile. Her smile lights her up from within yet she doesn’t know. He’s never told her. She thinks she knows him better than he even knows himself but what can an apple know of being a peach? She places a hand on his back, her fingers are always cold but he’s never flinched to her touch. The warmth coming off him makes her feel she has been living a solitary winter and that there may be a summer at the end of it after all. He makes her heart smile as only he can, when he is being himself without trying. She doesn’t see the beauty in that simple vision, her hand on his back that is. She knows not the warmth of her cocoa essence on his paler than pale torso. He’s never told her that he’s never felt the cold in her fingers. He feels only the heat that her earth tones capsized his sails with long before he knew her name. He’s never told him he would stop being a peach for her and her being an apple, has never thought to ask.

She sees nail marks and a frown creases her flawless face before she can stop it. He has told her she should frown less but all she can think is she shouldn’t have gotten carried away this much. The marks on his back will leave an unsightly mass in the morning, she stares at her nails. Yes. There’s skin under there. A final testament to why she should learn to tone herself down. She kisses the marks even though she knows her lips wont take them away. It’s a beautiful yet less than beautiful sight to behold and there’s a magic in the path she lays on his marked back. He doesn’t yet know that those welts have blessed him but he will when he has a shower and he wont feel their pain though. He’ll feel agony caused by the fact that she isn’t in the shower with him.

You see, while peaches and apples aren’t able to grow on the same branch, sometimes, when they are in the same orchard they reach out to each other and even though neither can know what it is to be the other, they understand what it is to not fully be what they are meant to. But as I said in the beginning, this isn’t a happy love story, it’s a tale of apples and peaches and how they can reach out to each other and yet still hold back and not completely give into to making an altogether new fruit salad. These two have and they both know that they have gone beyond where they should have allowed it to go but they don’t know they words to say to each other to make the transgression survivable. Peaches and apples don’t speak the same language but they can sometimes hear the same voices.

He turns to her now and her heart leaps in her less than fleshy prison. He takes her less than freezing fingers and hold them to his lips. ‘I can buy you a new one.’ he whispers into her hand and she looks at his eyes. He means it and she knows. He is trying to speak apple and that doesn’t make her happy.It makes her eternally sad because she knows that he could never really be one. ‘No bed will be big enough for us.’ she murmurs into his face as she nudges closer to him and he blinks. Twice. Quickly. He does that when he’s thinking of what to say to her. She takes her free hand and tries to print his face on to it. He has warm brown Asian eyes; eyes that speak when his mouth doesn’t know the words to say. His nose is strong but unassuming; his mouth is wide but doesn’t swallow his face. When he lets himself laugh it’s a magical sight and one she has burned onto her mind. He isn’t smiling now though. His lips are moving but words aren’t coming from them and that’s ok too.

She pulls her now more than warm hand away and he gazes into her more than Godly face. No, there are no known Goddesses’ who have come close to the  vision that shares her less than large bed. She has eyes that are lighter than his, in a face with a mouth that often twinges in an attempt to smile. Its almost as though her eyes and her lips were constantly engaged in some form of mythical warfare. To see her eyes on their own you would see dancing tales told in wisps of vibrant colour and they would draw you in before you had a chance to save yourself. He is a bit deluded to think that his eyes could have been saved from the insanity of hers. He had no hope that first day when she sat at his table. Their branches crossed then and became entwined. Yet now, it seems time has come to release the vines from the more than healthy hold.

They lay there wrapped in their world of impure madness. Their lips touch one last time as they both know it is that final embrace before they have to let go. His fingers lace around her more than slender neck and her hands wrap around his back. They have already forgotten not to cause too much damage. Bruising is the least of their concerns. One last time the peach and apple dance in the wind and then let go. There’s some lingering. He wants her to ask him to stay, he will if only she will ask. She never will though. She’s never asked a man to share her bed and she never will. It just can never cross her mind.

He clothes himself as she lays in her now too large a bed. Her burnt mahogany skin looks like a dessert against the white cotton sheets; a sweet indulgence you’ll soon wish you could forget. Her hair is a tussled mess and her face shows the love it has just been subjected to. He leaves his key on his pillow; for it will always be his even though he will no longer lay there. The door closes behind him without a hint of restraint.  The peach has left the apple alone on her branch, or so it seems.

She lays back, the cold has returned to her fingers as she places them on her belly.

‘Daddy was a peach
Mummy was an apple.
Before they had a chance to rot
The apple told the peach to go
They both wanted him to stay
But he had to leave.

Little one,
You can never be either
Fully a peach
Or fully an apple

If I could wish and pray I will
I’d ask you not
To become an apple like your mother
And instead to
Be a peach like your father’

She chants lyrically to herself as she rolls over. She will tell her little one about her peach of a father but the peach himself will never know that he planted a peach seed in an apple and it had begun to grow.

Lust and Second Place

Broken Heart by nox-moonLover.
Broken Heart by nox-moonLover.


Mind Games

by Claudie Muchindu

Thinking I could play, no manual in hand
I rolled my die and watched them land.
Honesty they proclaimed, no truths shall be hidden
Discretion, they whispered, no truths to be shared

Convinced I was of seeing what only the blind can affirm
I let my heart fly, not knowing if I had enough room to land.
It wasn’t a virgin journey, I know this path
I’ve walked it once before.

I cannot love in moderation.
Shy away not from my loose tongue,
I’ll spell the words I refuse to write
Love has impaled me and blood shall run its course.

I cannot sit in the shade of a seed,
Planted only yesterday.
I have waited for you before,
I’ll wait for you still

I imagined what I hoped I could hold
Hate cannot flow in your direction
For you have wronged me not
Keep it that way, silence may you give me.

Make me not the woman who wretches you from another,
I’ll demand not what I cannot even voice,
I know the game now
And the truth, my dear sadly is…

I still want to play.



A long time ago, in a land not so far away. I thought I could accept second place in a  love game. It didn’t matter, I said to myself, as long as I was on the podium… Sadly, this was a lie I was telling. A tall tale about how “advanced” and “evolved” I was to not be a selfish lover. In a love game I need to own the podium and be first, second, third… heck, I need to be the only person in the race!

I can freely give love but I cannot share it.Sometimes life’s lessons show us how unevolved we are.

Over and Out!