It's amazing
how much of a comfort you can find
with fictional characters and their worlds.

Whether it's fantasy, sci-fi or thriller,
whether their world is full of dangers and adventures,
you would rather be in theirs than be in yours.

I realised how much of a sadness our world has become
because we rely in non-existing worlds
in order to survive our own.

*(n.d.)

He has the moon in his eyes.
This boy who stands still
as the others rush by.
His stop is brief -
he just wants to have a look around
But by the time he turns back,
the others have turned the corner.
A corner.
Some corner.
What corner?
He turns down every street,
every side alley
but finds only the cracked lanes
of empty sidewalks.
Lost, he continues to wander
searching for someone
who knows his way
or at the very least
is just as lost.

There’s something about you that
makes me want to write
        bad poetry
and half-assed short stories.  

Something about you that
makes me want to take all my
unspoken words and turn them
into something beautiful,
something worthwhile.

You make me want to be an artist
like Van Gogh or Sylvia Plath;
you make me want to create.

Maybe it’s that blue wave
that crashes down like
an incoming tide on the beach—
        your eyes
when you look at me in
a certain way, in
a certain light.

Or maybe it’s
the way that you say
my name and then say all
those horrible things that make
me want to rip something
        open.

Those words that rip me open.

You make beautiful stanzas get stuck in my
head like lyrics to a bad pop song;
I can’t erase them and the
only way I can think of to cope with it
is to write them down like a schoolgirl
with a well worn diary.

I think I might as well have hypergraphia.

I am an unprofessional
medical doctor with
a pen, paper, and
Word Document
suffering from a form of
verbal ***** because I
can’t possibly think of a way to
        speak my mind.

I think I would make a very good mute.

I wish I lacked a voice box
because then I wouldn’t have to
be the one that has to
say all the right, comforting things
at the all the right times
and all the right places.

Sometimes it feels as if I’m
being eaten from the inside out
by some sort of paratrophic organism
that sits atop my frontal lobe and
dictates my life and fluctuates my
anxiety and I can’t even think about
some things anymore because of this
nervous clench I get in my gut when
I let my thoughts get too jumbled.

But you—you make me want to write
the most heartfelt and sappy sentences
and you make me want to
be more than just ordinary.

You make me want to be extraordinary.  

I guess that what I’m writing is
an apology in the shape of
a few stanzas and a few metaphors.

And this is an “I forgive you” for that night
that we spent outside your house
arguing over the stupidest of things,
so stupid that I can hardly
remember a single word I said to you.

Nothing gratifying is ever
painless to obtain
and I want to be a fighter like
Hercules or Alexander the Great.

I want to be extraordinary with you.

In a land-mass mural hung high over my
(Smaller, Statelier) existence -

One boy, permeated in a maple-flavored monotony - one boy, half-asleep in harlequin headaches and half-assed homework - one boy, munching on metaphorical muffins - one boy -

COUNTDOWN: 5 , 4 , 3 , 2 , 1
BREAKDOWN: B , E , N , N , Y
                        (Where am I?)

Between bridges burned with cigarette butts, within ***** all-night diners and pieced (or pierced) together by solemn, salt-encrusted shadows

(I could come to you, you could come to me)
(Petit a petit, l'oiseau fait son nid)

Track my tiny rabbit feet through location services and ten-second hints

(Instagram my dead body)

I remember when my pulse slowed
in its comfort.
How strange it is
to feel my heart
beat in rhythm
once again.