I’ve never learned the art of a reliable recipe,
only the art of guessing who might eat it.
I will learn what you love,
the way you take your coffee,
that you’d rather have mustard on your sandwich,
that you prefer your toothpaste tastes like fruit instead of mint.
You see, I try too hard.
My food can’t be one flavor—
that would be boring.
I stir,
and stir,
and stir,
adding more until the dish is heavy, uneven.
And when you eat it,
you’ll taste the coffee grounds,
the mustard,
the toothpaste.
It’s not because I think it belongs—
I couldn't stop myself
kept reaching for anything with your name on it,
hoping the thought of the meal would soften the sour taste.
I serve the same dish to everyone,
each batch a strange new mix
of flavors I don’t even like—
and I wonder what keeps them here:
do they hunger for filling,
or for something truly mine?
I’m not sure I’ll ever know.
So I will watch you chew,
watch the fork sink to the side of your plate,
waiting for the scrape of truth—
for you to push the dish away.
I’ve left the recipe wrong on purpose,
hoping you’ll taste the absence,
and ask what I might make
if I cooked with my own hands.
Being in the mix of being Mixed
It's confusing, yet warm and cozy—like being lost is almost easier than being brown.
The choosing of which path to take—sometimes, I find it simpler to remain lost, avoiding the question of who might find me.
Sitting on the fence, being mixed is the truth I carry. The quiet indulgence in the in-between. Nobody knows for sure who from where.
I watch the journey pass—each exit, each departure, some people get off, others sometimes onto.
A glimpse of all—the beauty in both, yet never feeling whole with either.
So I linger where I know best, along for the ride,
never reaching any destination, just drifting in the unknown.
I used to search to be the best at both, master of each side,
but now I simply understand—
for me, being mixed is the in-between,
neither here nor there,
but forever caught in the space between.
Sleep tight, my child dear.
Mother is here, nothing to fear.
If the child snatcher, comes at our steps.
I will stab him with my own hands.
~Byeol
Within the scorpion's belly,
mother's blood is the meal.
I wonder,Is that's why scorpion is poisonous?
But be the lamb of sheep or the child of scorpion,Both are young sprouts.
I wonder, so does the scorpion taste "sweetness that linger on tongue,
A piercing pain in the throat, the soul torn apart".
~Byeol
With the thousands troop, I the general stride.
Below the land of ancestors pride.
Where dragon soars and tiger leaps with might.
For this, my sword tainted with river of blood.
Bears felony's weight , a mountain heavy tide.
My heart a rock, no regret, no shame reside.
~Byeol
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Land of ancestors: homeland
Dragon soars and tiger leaps: showing powerful prospering nation
Biting back at dragon's scale,
I run through the weapons crossing like chaotic clouds flying past.
The mighty sword rise in air,
Only to drown in sin so deep.
My hands stained with blood so red,
Root betrayed.
Blood of kin,
A price I have paid.
Heaven's cry, in torrent rage.
~Byeol
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Biting back at dragon scale: symbolises act of going against the emperor
Root betrayed: betraying your own family
(From1)
Snowflakes whisper peace, in Frozen air,
Echoes of battle, comrade beyond repair.
(Form2)
Alone I stand, in snowy vastness wide,
Blood- soaked memories, my comrade demise.
(Form3)
Before me, snow's pure silence deep,
Behind crimson shadows, comrades sleep.
~Byeol
" I stand on the chang'an's street with tattered clothes and tattered hands".
I follow deep the fireflies, running barefoot among the sea of faces,
"I get out in the pitch of darkness".
Oh! My beloved now I can "only drink the northwest winds".
~Byeol
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North west wind: is a Chinese idiom for extreme poverty
Silk merchant 's gaze, a practical sweep,
Fine thread he seeks, where shadows sleep.
A finger points, with eager grace,
"This crimson hue, a rare embrace!"
Young maiden stands,with eyes so deep,
My mother's hand, it secret keep.
The silkworm spun a crimson stain,
Where pain and love, did interwine.
"Her wounded hands, the thread did hold"
A sacrifice, a story to told.
The silk, it glows, with life's own fire,
A mother's love, that "burns no higher".
Merchant's hand is still it's quest,
A sudden weight, upon his breast.
No words he speaks, no price he names,
But feels the sting, of hidden flames.
He sees not silk, but crimson Tide,
Where love and loss, forever ride.
The silent tears, the woven plea,
A mother's heart, eternally.
~Byeol
Lady Tua, frequently look in the pond,
but who may tell her ladyship?
That turbulent water shows no reflection.
~Byeol
A merger of holidays was proposed
Young hearts for it
The elderly opposed
Fiercely debated
Bitter grew the divide
Neither young nor old
Could speak peaceably
to the other side…
The holy spirit waded
into the fray
its magical mix infused
love and brotherhood...
Alas and alack
~ Humankind refused
Truth isn't always a good look,
It can be as painful as reading
a very sad book.
Its easy and appealing
To be deceiving,
It obviously wont crush those
Inner feelings.
If the truth is too bitter,
Why wouldn't you mix something
a little sweeter?
Then it is then easier to satiate
that way the falsity doesn't
hold as much weight.
A heavenly mix,
that gives a perfect fix.
They say blood is thicker than water,
a reverberating old proverb.
But, I object!!!
Course in the world I am living,
water is magic.
In the world I am living,
water is no different.
It can be lighter, but it is an anchor,
And blood can be thicker, but predominantly bitter.
Hence, the concept is invalid
to me, if not to anyone else.
Course in the world I am living,
Both hás volume.
You don't always hear me complain.
I love the warm sun, the summer rain:
The springtime flowers and the autumn leaves;
But when winter arrives, unfortunately I start to freeze.
I like it when the temperature is 40 degrees,
And not when the snow is halfway to my knees.
Now I don't mean to sound snooty.
When I slip on the ice and fall on my booty,
And the cold North winds hit my face and nose,
There's nothing I can do, I suppose.
The fact remains that I don't want to be frozen.
Now I leave you with my favorite slogan:
Some folks like to frolic in the snow for kicks,
But brothas, like me, and cold weather just don't mix.
A ray of sound
sweet batting of eyelids
there is no end
to worrying
its got to stop
our defence is to gather
round the fireside
where the spirit
fails to congeal
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