An Eighth Shot of Espresso: Coffee and Creativity on Mum's Third Shift

Sharing is not meant to be a competition I want to show you why certain things make me happy and maybe you can join in too. I didn't expect you to go all in and assume control try to tell me you know more in a few days than I know from doing it for years. I don't want you to feel like you must be better than me be more skilled more knowledgeable but that seems to be your nature. And your need to be right sucks all the joy right out of what I had loved before.

I smile but less and less. and it doesn't reach my eyes. I laugh but it sounds hollow with not much truth within it. I love but it is more of a habit and an obligation than anything true. I cry but only when I am alone away from ignorant eyes and only deeply inside so the smile can hide it.

Fate is fickle and so is the crowd. One day, everyone's darling the next, their pariah. Fair weather friends foul weather enemies. Everyone wears masks but not all can change them as easily as others. Hide all your innermost thoughts guard all your secrets from those who would exploit every little weakness. The one advantage to never lying: you don't have to keep track of what you said to whom.

Should I be silent? The urge to write is too strong it is a part of me has been, will be My pen will not stop my words will not falter They might control the means but they cannot chain the thoughts in my head the love in my heart the song in my soul.

Jisei are poems written near to the time of a poet's death. A farewell to the world and an insight into the attitudes of the time. Inspired by Inspired by Japanese Death Poems: Written by Zen Monks and Haiku Poets on the Verge of Death by Yoel Hoffma  I. Let them argue over a useless corpse: My soul is free II. Life's bitter draught first tastes sweet on the lips it lasts for years III. Cicada's songs last scarcely over a season the forest remembers IV The mocking sound of his voice is finally no more oh I love the silence! V. Sun high in the sky but the clouds weep bitter tears go past the darkness. VI. When pain stops the body realizes euphoric release. VII. The painter puts down her brush declares her life's work done. VIII. It comes for us all by choice or no roses at the tombstone.  

The fool who takes up the pen creates a world that makes no sense But when one looks closer it has laws and logic all its own Exists somewhere not here or there or anywhere we know but in the fool's mind Up is down and down is up grounded in the world already known but a life all its own at your feet. The invitation beckons to step into this realm of all sorts of possibility mystery and magic