As in villages as in big cities,
As in classrooms as in societies,
I'm alone with my strange personalities.


The eyes, the smiles, the frowns, the clowns,
The hardships and their ups and downs
Have no affect on my daily rounds.


Even the precious words are empty,
No mean defences, no more acting gently;
No more need to fake my misery intelligently.

i walked down an empty road
it felt so free and open
i wondered why no one took it
but then the pavements were crooked
and i could see the flickering lights
turning the dust into a glimmering sight
i walked halfway only to realize something
that all these paths, they led to nothing
and i'm not the first to notice it
for all intents and purposes, there were red flags
i just didn't want to be dead last

Your tears of a golden hue roll as tumble weeds across a pasture

Sweat beads travel through a highway from your chest towards your hips

Arms raised to the sky waiting for some kind of rapture

The rain drops move the ponds edge to match the quiver in your lips

Even small shakes are formed at the core

Bored and alone, scorned off your throne might be the case

Or you might just stare at the abyss

Within infinite possibilities, where is my place?

Where can you trace the third eye beginning to paint its own cyst

Wandering through a series of articulate hallways

Finger paintings and rough sketches define this maze

A quill dipped in blood rewrites the phrase

To be or not to be

To me its honestly just another phase

A life long transition towards death

When I feel
my life is meaningless,
I remind myself
it is my responsibility
to make meaning of my experiences
by doing philosophy:
which clarifies
my aspirations and values,
which evaluates my experiences
in comparison to my aspirations and values,
which discovers wisdom
about what I can do
to improve my situation
to achieve my purpose: joy and happiness;
then my life is meaningful!

my poems are so good that they're bad. they are infinitely deep and meaningful and therefore don't mean anything at all.

I can say it means
A lot of different things
But when I first wrote it
It was generally *******

My life continues to end at seventy beats per minute.

catching the hesitation that these silent
worlds glaze

meaningless. smoke. echoing.
though an unworthy lover
stays,

“Shall we live—
just to see if we can?”

She grinned wickedly,
lips touching both ears.

She posed the question
as if I went by “Eve,”

And so I said “why not?”
then tried my hardest.

But alas,
she was nothing but a parasite.