Would you ever think of us as pots of clay Cracked, crazed, our edges entirely frayed Beyond our imperfections, would your eyes ever stray To deem our existence a masterpiece Honed by crying through sleepless nights And struggling through unbearable days Would your unseeing eyes trace along these fractured crevices And chance upon the beauty … Continue reading Cracks

On Growing Up. Or Something.

As cliché as the title is, isn't it galling at the level of clench-your-fists-till-the knuckles-pop-out extremes how it turned out in the oldies' favour...when everything they so haughtily proclaimed with noses stuck high up in the air to display untrimmed nostril hair, inevitably came to pass. When all our head-shaking and non-conforming amounted to nil...zilch...nada … Continue reading On Growing Up. Or Something.