I have travelled the world,
                                               Climbed tall ships at sea,
       But I still do not know
                                               Who I want to be


Stare out the window,
                                       What does life mean to you?
How do we know,
                                       What we are meant to do?


I am wild in spirit
                                 But I can’t seem to      grow        it.

Please someone                           help me,

                                              Help me to show it.

Don't get cocky. You're just a coincidence. You're a mash of atoms. You are not special.
You're another group of cells that wanders until snatched by death. You will not leave anything. You do not matter.

You could be the president, you could be a star- you could have an army. It does not matter. You do not matter. You will not leave anything. You cannot, and that is for the best.
You are so, so small. You cannot effect anything. You are just a droplet. A droplet of atoms & brain cells, that goes around telling others they're a special droplet, when you're lying.
But, it's okay. What's a lie in a world of pretentious little atoms sipping tea & reading books?
Make of it what you please, little being. You're no special snowflake.
You are nothing.

i was trying to figure out
the meaning of life
when it hit me like your fingers
in the twang of the earth’s guitar:
one day i will be
sitting, alone, in the sweltering dust
of the crossroads, with the reed-
blow of the wind, the blood
of the grass,
the bang of the silent
hitchhiker looking for a
way to carry his swallowed whiskey
and then i’ll know.
i’ll know.

It's 2 in the morning and I'm still awake,
drinking alone, again.
It's not like I have the most interesting job to wake up to
I just deliver words to people's homes
and get chased by dogs every now and then  
wondering if they got bad news or not
and how they feel about it

At night, I deliver the words to myself
With the pen in my hand, staining the paper
crafting each word with stories of days that passed me by
Sitting in the dark writing while others are standing
out there in the cold harsh reality, living and breathing
expecting release
but never did much to achieve that freedom
aside from complaining about it every single day
I never did much either
Maybe I got so used at being a prisoner
That the idea of freedom seems more like a myth
than something we all deserve

After I finished my final bottle, the last of its kind
I walked out and went home, hoping I did my best to drown
my demons and my feelings
It's not until I reached my door that I realized they ******* know how to swim
and they do it so well I might as well let them

I decided I don't want to go home
It's hardly a home anyway
It's just a bunch of furniture crammed in a room
So I would feel less empty


With my pen and my paper I walked
my footsteps behind me echoing until they too,
became silent
I threw my keys into the ocean
and should anyone find it, I hope they won't be disappointed
of what they'd find behind the door it opens

I stood at the edge, trying to write a letter
addressed to no one in particular
I wanted to sum it all up in a few words
but I couldn't
I keep worrying about the people
who won't be receiving their letters
And who would deliver mine?


I ended up writing six pages worth of
words I don't even remember writing
All the letters I have inside my bag flew like pigeons on a good day
and I silently wished for the wind to bring them
all to the right addresses


as for my letter addressed to no one in particular
Some of them landed on a puddle
some of them landed on dog ****
As for me, I landed on the concrete
between 6th and 7th street

It was so many months ago,
On the feast of the deceased,
Jack-o-lanterns' gleaming glow,
Soul tormented by savage beast.

Overworked and overstretched,
On cold nights, with howling wolves,
Loneliness had scratched and etched;
Pride been trampled by heavy hooves.

Agony ached through my body,
Poisoning mind and spirit's heart.
Workmanship's been so shoddy,
Every day was a hard start.

And so I thought, 'Why am I here?'
'Nobody cares or even thinks of me,'
'Only torment strikes mine ear,'
'Better to shut up and dare not plea.'

So they checked me out of school,
Bunch of suits forced me to hospital,
Examined by creeps while on the stool;
Why was everyone so hostile?

That night, I tried to fall asleep,
Poison and toxins flying 'round,
Cruel cameras watching me weep,
Whatever happiness had been drowned.

We are the coffee stains on waiting tables
That lie unattended in cafes
Of our own making
We are the imprints
Of a life lived haphazardly
Without any patterns to follow
We are…and are nothing more

Each day I immerse myself
In the torrent of a New York Sidewalk
Knowing that  Life and death
Have never been closer
Than at this very moment
Each day I see people
Living lives of quiet desperation
Caged in suits of blue and black
Bought for 250 dollars
At  Saks fifth avenue
Without looking at price tags
Because who argues
About the price of a straitjacket

I leave the crowds and walk down further
On a street that seems empty and yet full
There is a tree standing at the corner
Of two numbered avenues that
Are different ,yet the same
In the nightmarish way
That only cities can hope to achieve
It looks anaemic and withdrawn
Gnarled beyond recognition
Unnoticed , except by dogs
And posters for lost dogs
That offer paper rewards
For a live beating heart
It seems to cry, tearlessly
Soundlessly
At each nail that tears through its skin
Trying to find its pulse point
And silence it for good

There are brownstones lining
The street that I turn into
Brick mansions that should
In their ridges hold
Stories of wealth and  joy
That surely follow
All green paper trails
But instead, house
(Like exotic museum specimens )
Cheating fathers and acrimonious mothers
Drugged out sons and prostitutional daughters
All by products of a generation that measures
***** into its morning cornflakes
And keeps itself alive
On a steady diet of Adderall


I come to the end of the street
And watch as the sun sinks down
Over a dead end world
Wondering if the night will hide
Or reveal all that lies hidden
Wondering if remembering
Buries or resurrects …
Or whether we are all graves
Postmarked optimistically “To Heaven “