Intrepid gadfly;
the voice of dissent.
Multiple times stricken,
multiple times resolved.
Though he bleeds,
still the pen that chides never bleeds,
nor is it obliterated.
For three decades and four,
death he evaded,
still, multiple times stricken,
evasive he remains.

when i write
i always find myself wishing that i wrote like Lana del Rey,
making even the simple things seem extraordinarily grand, to be able to glamorize what is sometimes a painfully normal life
i want to touch someone's skin
and write about it in a way that makes someone feel as though they're touching velvet
i want the kiss we shared
to linger on someone's lips like the taste of their favorite chapstick
i want to write about love
so that in turn someone will lust for what i already have
i want to write about my years of pain and isolation in a way that makes someone want to rip their own heart out and offer it up to me on a platter made of shimmering, sterling silver
which, of course
i'd have to refuse
because what would a writer be if surrounded by love and admiration they knew was real, that they didn't doubt for even a second
although, the sensuality of the circumstance might be tempting
an artist without eternal, incessant suffering
is merely a wolf in sheep's clothing
or a fool who thinks he's a king
they simply aren't built to last

i want to write about my mid-night thoughts and for someone to think: Lana would be proud

If only they could see the dreams that I see
Maybe they'd support me
I'm writing a book
A concept from 2016
Its a beautiful story
Yet my family and friends are not there for me
Its disheartening to be so passionate about something and feel like it is all for not
That is the curse of a dreamer
That is the curse of a leader
As my dream begins to fade, I won't give in under the pressure this time
This book, I've invested too much time into
This book to me is perfect
I just have to help them see that it's worth it

Empty Heart still aches
Broken are we
Standing at the window of heart
You refused to leave
Addicted eyes wander to steal a glance
Distant are we
We bid goodbyes
Sacrificing the coast of communication
Snapshots still pooling up our eyes
Sacrificial Are we
We the truth
Unsaid
The stories breathing In dead
We love to be loved
Building a house of mud
Empty the empty heart
Again
Yet it feels empty
Breathing are we

If one day
you find me
not only as a poem
that you really love
and you don't care
who the author is,
I'll be happy.

You are not only the reader
I've been searching for,
but also as an eternal lover
in every words
I will tell you more.

From heart to paper,
thoughts have a way of getting
lost in translation

13/8/21
12:49 AM

I write.. so it seems
With messy sentences, run-ons and proses
All that my mind screams

But.. Funny enough —
the plots are starting to appear in my dreams

Perhaps I overthink it too much
But who knows?
It’s just fun to live through your story in your dreams

Breaths taken
Midnight cold
Talking to myself
3Am's

Countless outcries
Isolation and work
Later found me
Gazing dark nights

no i shan't sit
nor be complicit
i was made to part seas
to create and feel
my purpose is to move
to use these hands of mine to craft
more than you could dream of
because my mind is made of the galaxies
my thought is celestial
and if i feel like it i will build
you a universe
from my fingertips

hr.