i stare into the mirror and tired eyes stare back. a broken smile, ink drops dripping from tilted teeth, licorice liquid pulsating through vaurien veins. i can hear the beating of my heart in my ears, echoes of once was, this is, and will be's. she whispers to me. who is it that holds this heart, is it you or is it me?

the mirror stares back into me and wicked tongues weep. what words do you say and what do they mean?  what does it matter with words you can’t keep. static stains this tabescent mind, ink drops dripping like spilled scarlet wine, whiskey words of whispered repeats. who is it that holds this heart, is it you or is it he?

i do not speak like a poet.
my words are clumsy and callous
and i often trip over my own tongue.
there is no beauty to my words
or thought to my form,
and my voice does not fall soft and slow
like honey song, drizzled sweetly into willing ears.
rather it is raspy and quick-tongued,
laced with mispronounced words and oddly said accents.
my sentences race ragged and jumpy,
with capricious contours and half-finished phrases,
and i often lose my train of thought.
impulsive and unrefined,
i do not speak like a poet.

— but on paper i am a different person

there is a book within my heart
of poems you've never seen
poems you've never read
poems you'll never read.
and from deep within my heart
with my pen of black ink
i hope that you might read them
and say that you still love me.


― i'm afraid not everything i write is pretty

we were like strangers who knew each other very well, meeting for the first time in a fleeting moment. our bodies foreign to each other’s touch, all passing glances and timid hands, but it could never last too long. someone always had to go, someone always had to return home, and there was never enough time. we’d become strangers again, dreaming of good morning i love yous spoken in tongue, written between skin, read between limbs. and slowly memory would fade, skin on skin fall faint, until all remnants of our existence withered away.


― until we meet again

ever since i was little, i have always imagined where i wanted to live, a dream home if you will. it has never really changed, it’s always been about the same. somewhere soft and secluded, surrounded by the trees and flourishing with flowers and fauna. where moss grows on the stone path and walls and rolls off the roof. a place where old souls live, full of mists and fogs of early morning mystery.

it had to rain often, i loved the rain, the smell, the sound. rolling over in the early morning to the gentle rhythmic pitter-patter of raindrops against the rooftop, the distinct perfume of petrichor wafting through a cracked window. i always wanted water nearby too, i’ve always loved the water. a pond, a lake, a river, a creek, anything really, if there was water i was happy. i didn’t want a very big house either, rather something small, something that made me feel warm, cozy, comfortable. and i wanted big windows, it needed to have a room with big, tall windows to look out of, something to let the sun shine in and soak up my melancholy thoughts, shine the shadows away. more than anything i dreamed of a home full of love.

but when i dreamed of my home, built its walls and designed its decor, i never imagined i’d find my home in a person. i never imagined i’d find my forest alive in your eyes, ever changing colors of the earth and sky ablaze in your soft and loving gaze, the sun lacing through the leaves in your smile, my sunshine. i never imagined i’d find the rhythm of the rain with my head against your chest and hand entangled in your own, listening to the life in your heartbeat. i never thought i’d find my mystery in the mists of your mind, brilliant beyond belief and capable of crafts and creations far beyond the depths of mine own. my warm, my cozy, my comfortable.


― you are my home

silence fills the room once more,
sitting behind your locked door.
open your eyes, a notification rang.
you’ve fallen asleep with the tv on again.
distractions, noise to keep your mind away,
one more play,
one more play,
one more play.
are you still watching?
are you still there?
or have you again let your mind wander elsewhere.
change the subject, change the story,
write another allegory.
turn off the screen, lock the door,
it's time to fall asleep once more.


― i don’t know how to make things better

you can dip your words in honey and sugarcoat your wicked tongue,
but nothing can change your rotten heart or change what you have done.

― poetry doesn't make what you did pretty