Consider this:
at its core, a ghost is typically described as little more than a restless spirit.
Given this description, it's not too much
of a stretch of the imagination
to suggest that you don't have to die
to be a ghost.
After all, things change every day.
It would be concerning if you didn't feel lost or anxious at some point. The question then becomes "what do you do if you feel this way?" The answer: remember who you are and all it took to get you to where you are today.

Late night poem in bed
For the late-night dreamers and criers.
I know
This will probably get lost,
Lost in translation or tangled up in your thoughts,
But I hope when you find it,
It also finds you back.

This is my virtual hug but also a reminder
To allow yourself to dream,
Allow your mind to wander.
That’s what keeps your spark lit;
And be your guide forever,

Through the ups and the downs,
Wherever life takes you
Don’t you ever forget, that Gods always with you.


Truly,
With every word written,
Big or small,
I hope it fuels your imagination
And ignites your soul.
I know it feel heavy
Carrying the weight of the world
It can get so lonely
But know you’re not alone

So dare to dream, gentle soul
Hold on to them real tight
Let the midnight mooon reaffirm your existence,
And lift you toward the light,
Even for a moment,
Or only just for the night,
Until you finally break free, and everything feels Alright. ✨

your true colours remind me of my old bruises
the hues, the truth stuck in my throat
the feeling of being useless
your truth cannot rectify the divide inside
the echoing of inner child cries
the pain is stuck inside
choking on my insecurities
you were supposed to be my security
the foundation is weak
too scared to speak
choking on my impurity
will you still stay through the grey?
when i rain, will you hide away?
strive today for a idyllic place
to lay my head, to plan, protect
to understand your hands
as soft not violent
as truth not sufficing
why is my heart so divided?
can we make amends?

Go to where
poetry is aroused
that's where misery
drinks with company
and over-thinking
smokes with assumptions

That's where the heart
over-fills drinks
to the brim
with
"is this right?"

and wets papers
with poetry
that questions
its creator

From within our heated homes,
Food and water nourishing bones,
Time is spent, thinking of a future event.
But,
The birds sing, despite the monster with the Claws, that constantly Persists in it's downfall.



Song, Our house, Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young

I’m sick and tired of not being able to show the real me,
Pretending to be ‘she’.
‘She’ who has the perfect body,
‘She’ who can audition for the Kardashians probably.
‘She’ who everyone wants to date,
But then again, ‘she’ who everyone hates.
So it concludes i’m happy that i’m not ‘she’,
But everyone night, in the back of my mind
I wish I wasn’t me.

How long does it take?
For you to see my poem,
Mr. Publisher?
You have me checking the mailbox,
Over and over, like I’m a little boy again.
Every time I open it and find no letter,
I feel the pain of self-doubt inside.

I wonder, Mr. Publisher, when will you read my work?
Or, have you read it already,
And are planning to send it back?
Using the ‘significant postage’ I left in the envelope.
Will I open your letter,
And find a cold message of rejection?
Or, will you love my poem?
Will you beg me to come publish with you?

Oh, Mr. Publisher, I need to know!
The little boy in me has grow old by now,
He clutches his walking stick,
As he goes to check his mail box.
Looking for that wax postage seal,
Red like the hide of a fox.

Mr. Publisher please!
I grow anxious everyday you do not respond,
And I re-read the poem I sent you almost every hour of the day.
My lover left me, Publisher Man,
She cursed me for giving more attention to you than her.
But matter not, does that!
That witch will see the man she left when I get my letter of approval from you!

Though, she did take most of our things with her,
Left my house a little empty, didn’t she?
Where will I sleep,
If she has the bed.
Alas, Mr. Publisher, I mind not the lack of sleep,
I’d rather spend the time waiting for the letter that's coming soon.
But how close is soon?
I remember telling my friend,
I’d be able to be her lover, soon.
But soon still hasn’t come,
As she still waits at the door for me.

Mr. Publisher, not a very good postmaster this town has!
For I still have not received your message of approval!
How strange is that?
I’m sure it simply got turned around,
It’s been days after all!
Days with no bed,
Days without my lover,
Days missing my friends.

Dear Publisher Man, have you not sent it at all?
The little boy who ran to check the mail,
Had his funeral yesterday.
I was invited, but as you know,
I was busy waiting for you to respond!
I’ll have to visit some other time,
For I’m sure I’ll see the postman who carries your letter soon.

For the first time in days I left my mailbox,
Mr. Publisher,
Well, not by choice you see.
For, you had me waiting for so long,
I died before your letter came!
What a shame,
Guess you didn’t have time for my work at all!

Mr. Publisher, not a soul came to see me be buried in the ground,
I kept telling my dear friends I could be with them again,
Soon.
But soon never came,
And the only one who will weep on my grave,
Are the crows,
And my dear friend,
That I left years ago.
Ha! Will she be my lover now?

You can keep the stamp Publisher Man,
I won’t be using it anymore.

If a bad, unsettling thing is taking place,  
Making me humiliating in my inner space,  
At some boiling, anxious pace.  
Holding tightly, proving biased case,  
Losing the sight of self-knowing’s sole grace.  
I’m just consolidating my inner defined haze,  
To make things appear true in my defined chase,  
To claim my augury true at every place.  
Handling, exploiting inner flowing, mazy pace,  
Imagining to feel hard the defined charm to chase.  
Knowing this decision of self-harass,  
But this is so smothering, exhausting case for himself.  
Where the world is just the consolidating of inner defined haze,  
Blaming world and stuff to be constructing mess.  
My face, my fears, guilty gears and all phrase  
Are working only to fulfill imagined embrace.  
Even this is something been given to me by some random accidental bass,  
Originating from some muddy collision on rough surface.  
This blaze has, if you see, innumerable face,  
None of which has their own eyes but handed gaze.  
While there are either none or all sovereign hands,  
Just like cloudy shapes, random patterns intermingled colors have forms in void names.

I overslept again today.
Terrified of living life.

Too afraid.
To chase the sun.

I wish on the stars.
To play their part.

Wondering if I will ever be,
Good enough?

To live the life I've always dreamed.
Instead of falling fast asleep.

There's no room for me to breathe.
Suffocating and sabotaging.

The life I want for the life I don't.
Wasting away another day.

Running on empty.
Will it always be this way?

Instead I'll fall fast asleep.
Dreaming of what my life could be.