november child

the curse of a sentimental heart & a skeptical mind


I hear you,
loud and clear.
Each quiver,  crack,
change of timbre,
every pause,
and most of all
your silence
cries out to me.

© november child
photo credit:



Hand over your darkness,
send me those clouds
that overshadow your smile
when you think no one is looking.

I  will carry them for you,
shoulder their weight,
wearing them like a second skin.

Let their drabness
blend with the gloomy despair
I have born for
what seems like ages.

© november child
photo credit: original photo abrinsky via Flickr

Little Death

Yesterday I died a little.

Now I am concerned,
as I do not know
how much life
I have already used up,
and how much leeway
I am granted.

I am thinking,
I may have to stop
this reckless behaviour,
take a more prudent
course of action,
and stop dying a little
every time I think of you.

© november child
photo credit:



To this day
I can not comprehend
what made me fall for you.

This total deviation from
the good-guy motto,
the sudden insane plunge
into the bad-boy theme,
I am still amazed
at my own boldness.

I’ll just tick it off
as a tiny rebellion
that, to put it mildly,
didn’t turn out too well.


© november child
photo credit: artist unknown



I drift aimlessly, in limbo,
deliberately disconnected,
hesitating over every step
as if navigating a grid
without coordinates.

I hover above trivialities,
fret over minor matters,
and obsess about details
in an effort to distract me from
what needs to be addressed.

Procrastination on an
expert level is my answer
to controversy, my go-to mode
when I am unsure
where I stand with you.

© november child
photo credit: Geekly Things via Flickr

On Colours

I beg to differ,
eggshell and off-white are not
the same as white,
and vanilla is no more yellow
than aubergine is purple,
or turquoise is just blue….

And I’d sincerely appreciate it
if one didn’t roll their eyes
at the sighs escaping me
upon ridiculous remarks like
‘looks all the same to me’….

If, during Stone Age,
we had picked holly berries
instead of red currant
with an offhand
‘looks all the same to me’,
humankind would be extinct….

© november child
photo credit: Kentish Plumber via Flickr
   Massive                            difference


In a moment of
pure nostalgia
I dream of white beaches
and oceans.

And then I remember
the distinct mouldy, salty smell,
icky jellyfish and slimy seaweed,
lobs at low tide,
how I really don’t like it
when I can’t see the bottom,
or anything else bustling in there
for that matter,
and that the water is always
cold, at least where I come from.

And I recall, the sand gets so hot
one can barely walk on it,
and sneaks into every piece
of clothing one wears,
that sea shells and whatnot
prick the soles of my feet,
and, seriously, making love
on a beach is only ever
awesome on a TV screen.

I’m still pondering
where my romantic
notions originate from
when they’re clearly
not supported by reality.


© november child
photo credit: Fred Riley via Flickr


Under the billowing canopy
of your self-made throne,
safe from harm you sit,
legs drawn up, toes wiggling,
ash-blonde locks constantly
falling over your eyes,
simmering down after
a day full of excitement.

One sticky hand holds
your toy car in a death grip,
while the other grabs
little slices of pear
I had to cut just so,
chewing happily, unperturbed
by sweet juice running
down your chubby chin.

You’re my personal lodestone,
irreversibly drawing me
into your bubble of happiness.


© november child
photo credit: Wikimedia commons
in response to Mindlovermisery’s Menagerie Wordle # 146 ‘March 13th, 2017’

Compassion vs. Judgement


You sneer at immersing
oneself into another world
in the pages of a book.
Pure escapism, you say.
You may be right, so what?
Even in privileged lives
not everything is coming
up roses. It’s not
up to you to decide
how others deal with

You complain about how
people immerse themselves
in their own pain.
Who’s to judge suffering?
Everyone is hurting
in their own way, to their own extent,
and for their own reasons.
Considering another’s
pain as irrelevant,
does by no means
make it so.

© november child


The Boon & Bane of an Unfinished Story

In your unfinished story,
the hopelessness
of too many blank pages
never to be filled,
has lodged itself
deeply into your soul
like a beastly splinter.

Sometimes you relish
the delusion of taking
sweet revenge,
by writing more
pleasant endings
to soothe your bruised ego.

Other times,
you are simply grateful for
how you were spared
the flash of disappointment
that follows
unfulfilled expectations.


© november child
photo: artist unknown
in response to The Sunday Whirl Wordle #290

Flying High

A look in the mirror tells me
my wings look a bit
dishevelled, worn by wear
but I can’t help myself,
I so love to fly.

I throw myself into the wind
with arms widespread,
flying in the wild, crazy patterns
I never dare to follow
when I’m on the ground.

I will not avert my face
but allow the airstream’s
full frontal pressure to hit me
until I‘m barely able to breathe.


© november child
photo credit: Pam Link via Flickr


It’s quiet, too quiet.
Freed from the shackles
of preoccupation
with everyday activities,
thoughts raise storms.

Fractured abstract syntax
interrupted by obscure symbols,
too speculative
for immediate grasp,
yet eerily familiar.

This feeling
of just needing to retrieve
that one missing piece of the puzzle
to understand the mechanics
of the Universe.




© november child
photo credit:

Defensive Measure

This pain, the one
right behind your eyes,
that cuts into your brain
with the force of a saw,
and slowly leaks into your temples
until it dulls your senses,
makes it hard to keep
track of life.

Over the years it
has become your shield
against words and deeds
you can’t cope with,
and a great smoke screen
to hide the bits and pieces
of life that you’d rather avoid,
a defensive measure
you’d surely miss.


© november child
photo credit: YouTube
in response to The Sunday Whirl Wordle #289


Still Cold

Mislead by a deceitful sun
that exploited my desire
for warmth, and lured me outside.

Fooling me with an empty promise of
this incomparable sensation
one gets
as warmth settles on one’s skin,
and spreads through all layers
until endorphins kick in,
catapulting you into
this glorious
cosy-lazy-drowsy state
of pure well-being.


© november child
photo credit: Jose Maria Cuellar via Flickr



Sometimes I feel them reaching
out to me,  all those pieces of me,
little dust motes that settled in
the places my heart left behind.

Sometimes I hear them calling
out to me, all my sighs, prayers,
and doubts, tiny dandelion seeds
that got carried off by the wind.


© november child
photo credit: Feggy Art via flickr


Nobody knows me as well
as you do, but it is not enough,
bared to the bone is not enough,
nothing is ever enough, is it?

You always dig deeper
in search of jewels and pearls,
I share with no one else,
so you can add them to your crown.

I can feel the holes in my mind
where your curiosity extracted
parts of me, the scraps and bits
that caught your interest.

And I wonder what will happen,
when my neural pathways dry up,
no longer retrieving juicy details,
when I have nothing left to give…


© november child
photo credit:

In the Shadows

In the Shadows. Waiting. For Him. Again.
It seems it is all she has been doing lately.
Nerve-wracking hours spent glued to a window,
hoping against hope, set up for disappointment.

Wishing. In the Shadows. Praying. Again.
Urging the next headlights that brighten
the dark corners of the room, but never
the darkness in her heart, to be his.

Hurting. Crying. In the Shadows. Again.
Humiliated by the memories of the smell of
too sweet perfume on his skin, and the trail
on his back where nails, not hers, drew blood.

In the Shadows. Scorned. Angry. Again.
Facing the self-loathing caused by
her indecisiveness, when all it takes is
to pack his suitcase and leave it at the front door.


© november child
in response to Michelle Toussaint Photo Fiction #77
photo credit: Josefine Jonsson


‘How’s purgatory?’  he asks,
his pointed ears twitching
with curiosity, his purple eyes
fixed on a point behind my irides
in his usual, disconcerting way.
He rocks back and forth with this
strange, rhythmic movement,
a sure sign of his impatience.

‘I wouldn’t know, I’ve never
been there.’
I feel uncomfortable
talking about this. I hadn’t planned
on doing purgatory. I’m more the
kind of person.
With him, you never know if it’s
just nosiness or rather a hint of
what is to come.

‘Funny.’  He giggles, he always
thinks I’m hilarious when I’m at
my most serious. He notices my
consternation, his laughter trails
away and his little face turns serious.
‘You do know where you are, don’t you?’
That said, he pops out of existence
into whatever spatial dimension
he calls home.


© november child
photo credit: wikimedia commons


Marooned on a planet,
whose axial tilt seems
to have taken an undeniable
swing to the right,
and shows clear signs of
blurred boundaries,
I refuse to give in to
hopeless lamentation.

I fill a radical sky with rainbows,
line up candles on window sills,
make deals with angels, elves,
and a couple of trolls
to stir things up a little,
and spray pink graffiti
on imaginary walls.



© november child
in response to The Sunday Whirl Wordle 287
photo credit:

Act of Defiance

Scepticism paired with incredulity
is my answer, and resistance is
my reaction to most of your
pieces of wisdom that lack
sound judgement, but are nevertheless
foisted upon everyone within your reach.

All those factoids, and stereotypes
you picked up along the way,
absorbing them, making them
your truths without scrutiny,
passing them on unfiltered,
never wondering, never questioning
the source and its validity.

I am so tired of everyone
making up excuses for you,
eager to protect your fragile ego.
You know, change is possible,
the chance to transform yourself
presents itself every second of every day.
You merely are unwilling.

Being not so bad is simply
not the same as being good.


© november child
photo credit: Bill Collison via flickr

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