I don’t understand why you like simple things.
My omelettes are quite simple:
Milk, eggs, some paprika, spicy chorizo rings
You eat it as if you’re in a Michelin star restaurant,
Every time, you chew for 10 minutes,
You smile and thank me as if I just saved your life,
As if you were the hungriest man on Earth. 
I smile back. I love making you happy—
So simple. You really overestimate its worth. 

Me frying up this mixture of things is an exchange
Of my simple human love. 
I guess you washing up the plates shows that it is a requited one.

I still desire to make it very clear.

To open up what has been bottled down. 

I feel contempt but have no fear. 

My truth is sharper than a spear.

Prepare for a fight till one’s knockdown. 

I want my name and body to be clear. 

I hope that you will shed a tear. 

I hope your grin will turn into frown.

I must remind you— I have no sympathy, no fear.

Now listen, you, my not-so-dear,

We’ll meet again, at midnight, downtown.

I’ll outline demands, I’ll make them very clear. 

I know that when I see you I will jeer. 

I’ve had so many years of you acting like a clown. 

I’ll be the one with laughter, you’ll be the one with fear.

I’ll see you soon. My not-so dear.

You’ll wear whatever, I will wear a crown.

I am the one who speaks the truth and therefore I’m clear.

You are the liar who should live in constant fear.

Two days old stubble, curls just covering your eyes. 

I think your eyes are brown. 

I speak, I nod, I’m yet to realise

I am about to drown. 

Three, maybe four days, same old stubble. 

I guess your eyes a lighter shade of brown.

I drink your wine that tastes like trouble. 

You look me in the eyes and at my skimpy dressing gown. 

Clean-shaven. Oddly satisfying.

Don’t care about the colour of your eyes. 

A mere hug, another boundary untying.

Your smell I now can recognise. 

Two days old stubble. I am yet to taste it. 

I’m here. Make me close my eyes. 

I am a sinner, but let’s face it—

The good ones rarely get a prize. 

I like clean-shaven, I accept the stubble. 

Like you accept pyjamas over a skimpy dressing gown. 

That bloody wine got me in so much trouble—

I know your eyes are hazel brown. 

There is a half of me that sees 

The world with beauty and with ease. 

There is a half that’s always vexed,

Her world is freakish and perplexed.

They are a mixture, a concoction.

I wonder who brewed such a potion.

Were they an evil mastermind? 

Or just a fool of human kind?

These halves are bringing me much trouble!

They chew and gulp my poor brain’s rubble.

They fight and shout inside my head—

I need to choose one to be dead. 

Kill only one. Make no mistake

So she who wins can overtake.

But who is she? What does she know? 

Are they both bad? What’s next if so? 

Will I be dead? Can I exist without one? 

Do I need two or maybe none? 

What if I’m worse off when they’re dead?

If they are good, what if I’m bad?

Be gloomy. Cranky. Be grumpy.

Be tense. Selfish. Childish.

Be sensual, quiet. Be hungry.

Some days better. Some worse. Never ugly. 

Sometimes happy. Some moody. Some just lovely.

Be cheeky, be precious, be sunny.

Be.

Maybe lonely. 

Maybe lied to.

Maybe cracked. But not broken.

Be in love. With whoever, but first with yourself.

Rub your eyes.

Twist your hair.

Try. Again. One more time.

Swear.

Be.

Thanks for joining me!

I am starting this journey because I feel that I am ready to show myself through my poetry. Let’s begin.