Simply Drakovi

The Yard Doesn’t Stay Clean for Long The eucalyptus never takes a break. Bark curls off like she’s shedding skin, leaves drop even on windless days. I don’t try to win the fight, just keep up with it. Bit by bit. It was already over 110 out when I stepped outside. Dry heat, the kind that wraps around you without warning. I actually like the way the air hits my skin makes me feel more awake than coffee ever could. Makes the yard feel alive in its own sharp way. I didn’t stay out too long. I’ve learned how to make these cleanup sessions count without overdoing it. Short bursts. Focused. I take what the tree drops and haul it off, clear the ground enough to see it again. The pile never stays gone. But that’s not the point. She’s still growing, even when she’s messy. And I let her. I’ll be back out there again tomorrow or the day after. Same rake, same heat. It never really ends, but I don’t need it to. Drakovi Bloodrose 

The Water Heater Clicked and That Was Enough This morning the house was so quiet I heard the water heater click on from the other side of the place. It made me stop what I was doing, which wasn’t much. Just standing in the kitchen, waiting for the kettle. Nothing was wrong. Nothing was amazing. The day was just sitting there, waiting to be lived. Hayley was still asleep. I didn’t feel like checking my phone. I just listened. Noticed the fridge hum. The soft rustle of the dog stretching in her sleep. Somewhere outside a bird was making that weird single-note call that sounds like it’s asking a question. I stood there longer than I meant to. No deep thoughts. No realizations. Just there. Eventually I made the tea and sat down at the table. Didn’t reach for a book. Didn’t write anything down. I just drank it slow and looked around like it was the first time I’d seen the place. I’ve been in this house a while now, but it hit me all over again that I live here. Not in a big way. More like a...

The Dream Where I Knew Everything Last night I was in a library with no walls. Books hovered a few feet off the ground, moving slow like they were drifting in warm water. None of them had titles but I still knew what each one was about. Not from reading. Just from being near them. I wasn't looking for anything. I was just there. Someone with the face of a sunflower gave me a cup filled with sand. I drank it without thinking. It tasted like wind and old paper. He didn’t speak. Just nodded toward a hallway shaped like a question. I followed it. At the end was a room full of clocks. None of them made a sound. One had a bird’s nest inside. Another was leaking wax. I touched the one that had no hands and it felt like a heartbeat under my palm. That was when I understood. Not like an answer shouted across a field. More like a memory that finally came back. It was soft and full. It didn’t explain itself. It just stayed. I woke up with my eyes open. Quiet. Still carrying it. I can’t put wh...

Cookie Dough and Reruns Yesterday didn’t ask much from us. We didn’t offer much back either. And that felt just right. After a long week that dragged its feet and took ours with it, we finally hit pause. No plans. No lists. Just us on the couch, letting the day drift by without checking the time. We watched reruns of Friends on HBO, the kind of show that doesn’t need your full attention. You laugh, even when you’ve seen the punchline a hundred times. You look at each other during the credits and know you’re both thinking about something else entirely, but in a good way. At some point Hayley and I split a tub of some homemade cookie dough ice cream. It was perfect for such a hot day. A little soft, a little uneven. But it hit the spot. Cold and sweet and just messy enough to feel like a small win. That was it. That was the day. And I wouldn’t have changed a thing. Sometimes love is loud. Sometimes it’s quiet. And sometimes it’s just sitting beside someone you’ve been through hell with, ...

Reflecting as the Potatoes Cooked  I didn’t anticipate pondering anything profound today. I was simply cooking potatoes. Nothing elaborate. Only a few small ones, peeled and cut into pieces. I was positioned near the stove, observing steam ascend like breath from the pot, and there was something about it that felt tranquil.  Not silently in a hushed sort of manner. Just remain still. My hands were spotless. Lillie lay asleep by the front door, her paws moving in a dream she wasn’t prepared to abandon. The cats were carrying out their regular patrol. All was well. Yet something in my chest was moving, like a door quietly opening just wide enough to allow a thought to escape.  I reflected on the number of times I've boiled potatoes throughout my life. And how varied the explanation is on each occasion. At times, it’s solace. At times, it’s habitual. Today it seemed like a ceremony. A gentle reminder that little things still matter.  I gently stirred the pot and contemp...

The Ones Who Sat With Me This Morning I did not plan to read today. Just wanted to move a few books around, maybe clean off a shelf or two. But once you touch one, something changes. You feel it. Like they are all waiting for you to notice them again. The morning light came in soft. Warm across the floor. My tea steeped quietly beside me. Kila stretched long like she owned the house. Miko stared into a corner like he heard something I could not. It felt like a day that would not ask much of me. I did not sit down with a plan. I did not go cover to cover. Just opened a few of my favorites, let them speak a little. Vaughan's Thalia Rediviva came first. Not the one people know. This one is gentler. A little slower. He writes like he is remembering something that still glows in the dark. I only read a page. It was enough. His voice never feels heavy, even when it should. Then came Neruda. The Yellow Heart is always close by. There is something about it that feels secret. Not loud. Just...

The Sock I Didn't Misplace  I was putting away laundry, which is one of those chores I act like I’ll complete all at once, even though I never succeed. I fold three shirts, drift away, return, lose track of my place, fold a towel, gaze at the wall. You’re familiar with the process. In any case, I discovered a sock. Dark. Tired yet still sturdy. And here’s the strange part, I wasn’t longing for it. I have no idea how much time it had been absent. I wasn't even aware it had gone missing. As soon as I grabbed it, I realized it was that sock. The one that used to belong to my favorite pair. The one I surrendered to without realizing I had surrendered. And all at once, I sensed that I had a debt to it. Apologies, dude. You were worthy of more. I realize it's foolish. Simply a sock. However, it got me reflecting on how frequently that occurs. Items drop out of our lives, and we remain unaware. Only after they reappear. Silent. Known. As if they never departed. The amusing thing i...

Woke up feeling off. Not in a dramatic way, just kind of sideways. Like I wasn’t fully in my skin yet. I wandered into the kitchen. No lights, just that dusty morning haze coming through the window. Opened the jar cabinet, stood there for a second longer than I meant to. Reached for the lavender. Didn’t think about it much. Added some lemon balm too. Chamomile was already on the counter like it had been waiting. I didn’t measure anything. Just tossed it together like I’ve done a hundred times. Kettle was already going. Lillie stretched and yawned like she understood the mood without needing a word. She's good at that. The first sip hit different. It wasn’t about taste. It was something else. Like the plants knew I needed to be brought back to myself before I even realized I was drifting. The tea didn’t solve anything. Didn’t give me some sudden epiphany. It just gave me a minute to sit still. That was enough. Funny how that works. You spend so much time trying to figure out what’s ...

Back At It, Simply Me, SimplyDrakovi I didn’t mean to disappear so long this time. It just sort of happened that way. Life got noisy, the kind that sneaks up without warning. One day you're writing about herbs and tea and tangled thoughts that turn into poems, and the next you're staring out your window wondering how months flew by without a single blog post. Not that I haven’t been living. I’ve just been living more quietly, I guess. But today felt like the right day to say hello again. This morning I brewed a mug of orange and hawthorn with blackberry tea, sat outside with Lillie at my feet, and watched the sun break over the rooftops. The desert’s still dry as ever, but the morning air held a weird sort of softness. It felt like it was inviting me to start again. No big declarations, no pressure. Just picking up where I left off. So that’s what this is. A small reentry. Nothing huge to report. The garden’s mostly hanging on, though the heat is making everyone cranky. Plants,...

Petals of Memory: A Bloodrose’s Reverie By Drakovi Bloodrose I am not a flower. I am the fracture of a scream. I am not alive, yet I breathe. My roots anchor to the soil as if the earth herself clings to me, a desperate lover. My petals, red as forgotten rage, shiver in the whispering wind, each vibration carrying tales of passing feet and shadowed figures. They call me bloodrose . But I call myself Ache. Each morning, the sun drips liquid gold over me, and I soak it up greedily, though it tastes of yesterday’s despair. My thorns gleam like spears, dulled from their wars with careless hands. A robin lands beside me and chirps something absurd: “You are beautiful today, Ache.” It has the audacity to compliment my decay, my eternal wilting. I snarl, “I am not beautiful, little winged fool. I am the scar you forgot to heal.” The robin doesn’t care, flies away with my bitterness tucked beneath its feathers. The soil hums with worms beneath me. They dance in spirals, singing songs older tha...

Ever notice how the urge to take a piss hits hardest right when you start washing the dishes? The Battle at the Sink By Drakovi Bloodrose The sink is full, and so am I, But the dishes can’t wait, and neither can I. Warm water flows, soap bubbles rise, And suddenly, my bladder starts to cry. Plate after plate, I scrub with care, But the pressure below is hard to bear. The sponge squeaks loud, the faucet streams, All a cruel reminder of my bursting seams. The pots are sticky, the forks are grim, My focus wavers, my chances slim. Will I make it? Can I last? This battle feels like it’ll never pass. With the last dish done, I toss the sponge, And bolt away in a desperate lunge. Relief at last, the struggle is through— The sink is clean, and so am I too.

Everyday the Rhythm Beats by Drakovi Bloodrose  Waking up, the sunlight spills over my bones— Sitting with the weight of my own thoughts, A brief dance with the porcelain throne, Shaving off the day before, head smooth, Beard an art of its own— A brushstroke in the mirror. Egg and oatmeal, Fruit’s burst of color, A protein shake— Liquid ambition, Fuel for the house of thoughts. Lillie, Miko, Kila— Tails and paws, A tangled rhythm of play. The floors whisper of cleanliness, Housework like the rhythm of breathing, Words slip through, poetry, Chasing the spaces in between. Anxiety— Not a cage but a wild rhythm, No fear—just energy buzzing, I shift, Gaming on the edge of the mind, The sky a blanket of endless questions. Her love, a constant hum, Her smile in the chaos, The softness of skin— Passion, sex, hunger, The circle ever spinning. And at the core, A mind, Unraveling, But never unwound. Goodnight universe. 

Awaken the Spirit, Protect the Land A Fortnite Tale b y Drakovi Bloodrose The sun split the sky with golden streaks as I, Drakovi, donning Michelangelo's skin—ever the eternal jokester and ninja extraordinaire—leapt from the Battle Bus, a shell of determination guiding my descent. The cherry blossoms danced in the breeze as I chose my landing spot: Warrior’s Watch. From above, its stone walls whispered of ancient honor and untold challenges. Touching down with a perfect roll landing, I immediately scanned my surroundings. My hands were empty, my blade yet to be earned. The echo of lesser demons prowling in the distance sent a shiver through me. No biggie, though—I’m used to throwing myself into chaos. With quick feet, I darted toward the nearest chest nestled under an archway, its golden glow beckoning like pizza on a cold night. Inside, I found my first tool of survival: the Oni Shotgun, its intricate design pulsing with supernatural energy. A fire mask rested beside it, glow...

Ripples of Growth  by Drakovi Bloodrose  A seed. A pat. A drop. The earth—wet, cold, or warm? Shh. Shh. The quiet hum of roots. Unseen. Invisible. But they stretch—always stretching. Above, below—no, no one knows. No sun yet, but a whisper in the dark soil. A dream begins. Stretch, reach— stretch, reach — Does it hear the sound of breath? Or is it just the quiet hum, the tickling of roots, the soil sighing, the patience of the wait. Time, space, movement, air. Shh. Shh. Stretching, a leaf, pushing. A shadow on the ground. The sky shifts, unfolding. What happens next?

The stray cats on the roof, unwanted companions, intrude on my peace of mind as they wander through my thoughts. The noise of their night-time activities on the roof disturbs my peace and quiet.  I can't stop picturing their fierce gazes shining under the moon, seeming to taunt me from their lofty domain. I try unsuccessfully to capture a moment of calm while they roam without fear and uncontrolled.  Every evening, the noisy commotion of their playful antics on the rooftop reverberates within the confines of my house. Initially, I found it entertaining - a peculiar rhythm, a reflection of life's unpredictability - but now it's making me crazy. I gaze at the ceiling, wishing for the noises to cease, yet they persist. It's like the universe is telling me that peace isn't always attainable; it's something we pursue, only to realize that the pursuit is where the real wisdom lies.  In a strange way, I suppose I admire their freedom. The boldness of the rooftop cats a...

Feast of Fragments by Drakovi Bloodrose    The turkey is not the bird, it is the space where the bird once was, and the table is not the table, but the echo of a thousand yesterdays. This feast of the mind— mashed potatoes? No, they are the memories of something that was never quite real. Cranberry sauce? More like the reflection of a reflection. And yet, we eat. We devour. What is gratitude but the whisper of an unspoken thank you lost between the first bite and the last? The pie does not exist. It only does when we look at it— and even then, only for a moment. I raise my glass to the chaos of it all. The burnt edges, the awkward silences, the laughter that echoes like something that has always been here, but never truly arrived. The pumpkin sits— not as fruit, but as a symbol of symbols, its orange a trick of light and time. Is it fall? Is it us? Are we falling, or rising, or are we the ones who have already gone? I give thanks for nothing, and...