Category: Daily Shit

In the garden of melancholy, where carrots grow
Their orange hues, a reminder of life's ebb and flow
Like tears, they fall, and wither away
Leaving only memories, of a brighter day

In this soil, I plant my sorrow
And let it grow, like a carrot tomorrow
Perhaps, in time, it will wither and fade
But for now, it remains, a bitter shade

Oh, melancholy carrots, how you remind me
Of life's impermanence, and its fleeting melody
You are a symbol, of what's been lost
A reminder to cherish, what's been crossed

So let us cherish, these melancholy carrots
And the memories, they bring to our hearts
For in their bitterness, we find a strange solace
A comfort, that our sorrow, is not a waste

A curious mouse in the cathedral, searching for faith
in the stones, in the echoes, in the smell of old wood.
It finds instead a tourist, taking selfies with adonkey in the background, a little girl with a pink balloon.

The mouse wonders if this is what they mean by "divine presence"
and decides to take a selfie with the donkey, hoping to capture
the essence of the holy. But the donkey eats the mouse
and the girl cries because her balloon is gone.

In the depths of despair, where shadows roam
Free from the chains of pride, I find my way back home

The stench of regret, a pungent smell
That clings to me, a constant reminder to dwell

On the what-ifs, the maybes, the could-haves
The ghosts of love, of loss, of shattered dreams that wave

In the silence, I hear my heart
A melancholy lullaby, a mournful work of art

The darkness whispers secrets, of a life unlived
A bittersweet reminder, of the choices I’ve given

In the stillness, I find my voice
A whispered promise, to make a different choice

To rise above, to shatter the pain
To find solace, in the love that remains

The hearing aid sank slow in the minestrone,
a plastic shrimp in a sea of orange broth.
It hummed a low, electric hymn
to the floating carrots and the grease.

You sat across from me, nodding like a pigeon,
your smile a series of polite, empty rooms.
I watched the device vibrate against a bean,
translating the silence into a high, thin scream.

We didn't speak of the divorce or the debt,
just passed the salt with trembling fingers.
The soup grew cold, a stagnant pond
where the only thing listening was a piece of beige plastic.

A crushed peppermint on the pharmacy floor,
pressed into the linoleum by a thousand tired heels.
It looks like a pink tooth from a very small god,
bleeding sugar into the grey wax.

You were buying creams for a rash you couldn't name,
your eyes the color of a wet parking lot in Oulu.
We stood in the queue, smelling of rubbing alcohol
and the quiet desperation of a Tuesday afternoon.

I reached for your hand, but found a damp tissue instead.
We stood there in the fluorescent hum,
wondering which one of us was actually leaking.

A slab of blue cheese clings
to the Book of Job, page four hundred,
smelling of ancient basements and regret.
The mold is a map of a city
where nobody knows how to apologize.

You read it aloud while eating cold beans
from the can with a plastic fork.
The wind rattled the windowpane,
shaking a single, dead moth
from the ceiling fan.

God was probably just as hungry as we were.

A used bandage clings to a Limoges plate,
a beige, sticky island in a sea of white.
It smells of old iodine and dried blood,
beside a single, shriveled olive.

You wore your best dress to the funeral,
but your shoes were leaking grey slush.
We spoke in whispers about the inheritance,
while a fly drowned in the champagne.

It was the most honest meal we ever had.

A scrap of wet toilet paper clung to the Prada loafer,
a white, shivering flag of surrender.
It looked like a moth that had given up on the light
and decided to embrace the sidewalk.

The man walked through the rain with a focused sneer,
unaware of the translucent parasite on his heel.
Beside him, a puddle of gasoline shimmered,
painting the asphalt in oil-slick rainbows.

I watched him go, my own shoes leaking at the seams,
smelling of wet cardboard and cheap gin,
while the little paper ghost waved goodbye
to a city that never asked for its name.

A half-eaten corn dog sleeps on the velvet,
stuck to the seat like a desperate prayer.
It smells of old sweat and synthetic butter,
while the screen shows a desert where nothing grows.

I watched a single kernel roll toward the aisle,
a golden pearl in a sea of spilled soda.
Beside it, a discarded ticket stub
claims I was here for a love story I forgot.

The usher mops the floor with a grey rag
that has seen more sin than a confession booth.
He misses the corn dog,
bleeding a slow, yellow tear of mustard.

The curtains are the color of a bruised plum,
smelling of old cigarettes and damp wool.
You wore a perfume that promised a garden
but delivered a sterile waiting room.

We shared a cold slice of pizza
on a mattress that remembered a different war.
I loved the way you chewed your lip,
like a dog with a piece of stubborn gristle.

It was almost beautiful,
until the radiator started to scream.