Awaiting A Knock?

(Inspired by a conversation)

I see you turn the keys to the lock and open the front door
To a house without the lights on and without anyone home:

You’re probably spending the night alone again where you will
Make a cup of instant noodles and take a warm shower
After which you will switch the television on and watch a rom-com
Until you fall asleep and be greeted by daylight the next morning;

You switch the lights on and turn back
To bid me a good night and a good bye most candid;

I wave a goodbye to you and wish you a good night ahead
While keeping my eyes on yours to catch you just for a moment longer;

I was hoping you would ask me to stay just a little longer
Even if only for a cup of coffee or tea or a little chatter,
But you take one last look at me with those dazzling eyes before you
Close the front door and disappear into that empty apartment of yours;

Do you shoot every guy a look so mesmerising
Or is it a hint that perhaps there is something more?

Is your heart locked like your front door,
Or are they both awaiting a knock?

O Caffeine O Caffeine

O Caffeine O Caffeine,
You who have kept me up many nights sighing on my pillow,
Nights where the shadows grow long and the leaves creep closer,
Such nights of unrest and unease;

O Caffeine O Caffeine,
You that cause my heart to race and sweat beads to form,
Where the dark of the night rivals the dark of the mind,
Such moments of anxiety and nervousness;

O Caffeine O Caffeine,
Times when you grip my heart and hold my mind ransom,
Leaving me with only fear and despair,
Giving me up to the uncertainties and pains of existence;

O Caffeine O Caffeine,
You are one such metaphor,
Present in the coffee that one drowns oneself in everyday,
Used as an excuse for just one more cup and one more day;

O Caffeine O Caffeine,
How much you endear yourself to me while I push you away!

A Tale of Two Mugs

(5 min poetry challenge before bed again!)


This is a tale of two mugs,
Yes you’ve got it – two mugs;

The first mug is the prized mug,
One that is beautiful and exquisite,
Where it sits neatly at the top of the cabinet,
Nicely out of reach;

The boy thinks that that is the mug for him,
Where drinking from it would make him happier,
That the beverage (even if water) would taste sweeter,
But unfortunately it is what it is –
Nicely out of reach;

The other mug is the regular mug,
One that looks plain and average,
That if it had a name it would be Jane for plain Jane,
A mug in hand that brings the beverage with it;

The boy uses this mug everyday for his drink,
Be it water or coffee or tea or even the occasional coke,
This is the mug that the boy drinks from,
But plain as it is and used as it is,
It is little thought of and hardly cherished;

The unattainable prized mug serves little purpose,
Yet he reaches for it as though it should be his mug;

The everyday regular mug is of much use and great purpose,
Yet he reaches for it with little regard and a mind set on the other;

Oh what a pity really,
That in reaching for both neither is obtained,
Where the outstretched hand fails to reach the prized mug,
And the other hand with the regular mug spills the drink in it;

This is as such a tale of two mugs,
With a floor splashed with milk and a boy left in tears.

Four O’Clock On A Sunday

It’s four o’clock on a Sunday (it sounds like a song) and the music plays,
The soft chatters coming from all round occasionally allow the tunes to filter through,
Yet the melody is foreign and the voice strained but mostly unknown and uncared for
While the guitar rifts gently flow as frets and glances are exchanged across tables; 

A boy and a girl sits close by at six o’clock staring into each other’s eyes,
sipping love potions through straws and getting lost in other worlds,
Many more around stare at chemical symbols under mood lighting,
Hoping to find the right formula to answer life’s biggest questions;

You sit elsewhere drinking coffee while I sit here wondering where this is all going; 

The sun shines outside and a set of notes is dropped,
Every table a different feeling, a different conversation, a different group,
Sitting together in the same space taking in the same tunes and smells,
Yet everyone is living a separate life experiencing a separate feeling and taste;

What do you want to do with your life, 
At four o’clock on a Sunday? 


She Walks By

I lift my weary head and direct my gaze outside the cafe – she walks by the window,
Her hips sashay casually and her black pleated skirt floats gently above her knees,
A plain peach-coloured crop-top wears itself smoothly over her well-endowed upper body, 
Giving her a look of simplicity and ease yet offering a subtle sense of sophistication and chic; 

It was all of five seconds in that beautiful encounter and then she was out of sight, 
Yet for all that five seconds eternity seemed to have taken over and I was entirely lost in that moment,
It was as if time has stopped and the world stood still for me to just admire her as she walks by, 
Forever a moment in time captured in the crystal recesses of my memory bank somewhere in my mind; 

I went back to the same place many a time and tried looking out for her, 
But never once by the window of that cafe did the girl again appear.