Domesticity

I wrote a few lines of poetry after a very long time, yesterday. I almost forgot that I used to write. I almost can't remember what it was like to not let real life get in the way of myself (not that this is a good thing, but its usually the more attractive option). I was inspired by a friend who also writes.

Cut through me, all the way to my essence.
Spoon out some love from its jar,
Compassion and passion
Pour them into the hole you made.
Do not alarm yourself if a couple of tears and
A few drops of blood and sweat
Drip onto your hands.
They'll tell you
I'm alive.

Most of my poetry have a particular reason behind them, and only I know the reason. For example, I had a fight with my mum and wrote the one that started with 'stuck in a stalemate' about five years ago. I didn't write down the reason behind it anywhere, but I still remembered imageries from the poem. I can't even remember what the fight was about, but I remember the feeling and the pictures that formed in my mind. 

Right now, I am sipping on a tea in front of the fan while writing. The tea packet claims that it 'will have you feeling absolutely peachy. The peachy feeling you get from recharging in the sun while the world is on mute. Except for the radio, which appears to be playing your favourite song'. I'm not listening to the radio right now, but how is the description so perfect? That is exactly how I was feeling when I got the tea and started to write, with the world on mute and all.

Our stove isn't working. The car has a massive scratch, due to me, which is getting rusted right now. The house has ants here and there, not exactly sure why. I still have at least three years to finish studying. The milk and bread went off sometime between two days ago and this morning. There is a pile of clothes to wash, plates and cups to rearrange and furniture to dust.