It’s like you plan to feed yourself with time
but never take any seconds. And I swear —
you could hear me second-guessing
myself over a plate full of food for thought,
just trying to feed a little of my ego. And it takes
a while to finish expressing myself — so let me take
the express train on any passing train of thought.
Cos it’s a full course — learning how to be well fed
in a world where everyone’s trying to make bread
while praying for that daily bread.

A man does all that he can for himself, before he
even says Amen! And all men are expected
to have themselves in order — but never given
the time of day to order the meal that fills their worth.
Because most of that time gets spent spending on
somebody else’s worth.

And sometimes, I wonder if it’s really worth it at all.
There’s a man who regrets giving it all to a girl
who became somebody else’s girl…that sentiment,
doesn’t only apply to him giving his all to girls.

—He gave everything to a seemingly self-fulfilled
world! And that meal is always so cold...

My thoughts stagger, trying to carry hopes heavy as heartbeats.
Two lovers, chest to chest, whispering, “let’s talk soul to soul,”
trying to make sense of a love story that hasn’t been written yet
—a heart-to-heart moment, I keep dreaming of.

I tell myself: stay focused. But I’ve been tiptoeing through
daydreams, because chasing love too fast leaves you breathless
when it runs the other way. Cos everyone wants the highs of love,
but no one talks about the problems on the down low — the quiet
exits, the silent tears, the way loneliness can sneak in even when
someone’s lying right beside you.

Maybe it’s a late-night phone call — a sleepy “goodnight, baby”
before the line cuts out. Or a “good morning” text just to fold into
my memory like a note tucked beneath my pillow. Maybe it’s
wanting to tell you everything — not just the good, but the messy
middle parts too. Like you’re both my friend and my fire. Like you’re
the one who fits the empty spaces between the soft notes of this wild
birdsong my thoughts keep singing.

I want that kind of love. But I know relationships get complicated.
And honestly, I don’t miss perfect — I miss partnership. I miss
the “we got this” when life gets heavy, the “I’m here,” even when
we don’t have the answers. It’s not a complicated thing — just
someone to solve life with me. To laugh when things crack. To stay
when the flaws start showing.

I want skin I can breathe in — not just touch. Someone who sees
my silence as depth, not distance. Who holds my flaws like fragile
truths, not defects to be fixed.

But maybe that’s too much to ask. Maybe that kind of love only exists
somewhere between sleep and memory. I’m awake now — and I
don’t want to fall too deep just to find the woman of my dreams.

art is an interchangeable form.
what is poetry can be prose can be music can be art can be TV can be movies can be video games can be visual novels can be webcomics can be dance can be movement can be aesthetics can be a flash of inspiration hidden behind a street corner.

art is a connective process.
you forge new threads between yourself, others, and the world around you.
you realize the universe is so much bigger than yourself. and yet, you discover just how you can be a part of it, just how you can fit in.

through art we are not human, yet art is the most human form of being there is.
art motivates us not just to live, but to thrive. it shows us the evidence of why we should all still be alive.

and to appreciate art, is no less than to make it.
to create, is no lesser or greater than to be.

go feel art.
go make art.

go be art.

A pistol tucked inside my heart—
memories of old dreams echo like bullet
wounds. Freedom comes, quietly, when
I finally let myself be known to myself.

Lips are like public transport;
they carry heavy loads:
sometimes love, sometimes doubt.

But the private lifts? Those are the words
we whisper to ourselves when we’re trying
to lift ourselves up, above our own doubts.

What loads are you carrying? Will your
transport make...or break someone?

Because belief in your own worth is such
a heavy load. And no— it’s not something
you should carry alone.

The weight of any load feels lighter when
the ones you love—and who love you back—
don’t just stand beside you; they help you
carry what you were never meant to bear alone.

we are not all going to die.
a draft will never hit our home
the TV will always be on, but
we will never be alone.

i write to dress the aching wounds
of the impending fantasy of a wartime
or rather a sickening anxious nightmare
of what cause
of what cause is it for?
is it to tear all of our teens to shreds on a dusty battlefield
while those who stay work our fingers bare?
fighting for a piece of colored fabric and glory that was never there?

the war will only hurt this broken world
and they say we will die american deaths.
someone pulled the bathtub stopper for
the liquid love in our hearts is gone,
and yet
the TV is always on.

you, me
sunscreen lines
hot concrete
public pool
wasps clinging to hazy poles supporting scratched-up waterslides
that made us scream:
both the slides
and the wasps
but we always laughed it off
in the end.

when we sit down the sunset will follow.
i hope we do it all over again, tomorrow...
pretzel cup cheese-induced teenage chlorine dreams
the summer i turned fifteen
i thought you
i thought we
were everything

Moments of love feel almost medical—
but my patience for it is cold, clinical.
I never meant to overdose, just chasing
comfort in a heavy dose of someone new,
to help me cope.

I try to build a house from broken pieces—
too many to count. I am the empty echo
of a heart still full, but far too loud
to be heard.

Echo...
  Echoes
     fall between the silence of our words,
two awkward breaths apart—trying
to keep it innocent, just as friends,
while our primal skins just want to skip
to the part of just having ***.

It’s the risk of falling in love—
that makes us stumble near the edge.
It’s beautiful. It’s ******* stupid.
It hurts. It’s love.
Whether it finds you first, as the one
you need— or shows up last, as the one
you never really wanted.

There’s a parachute stitched into my eyes— soft silk holding
nothing, as I watch myself freefalling into an empty space
The ringing words of love still call, like fading prayers –
as the voices of lovers trying to reconnect.

But I never was good at playing my heart. But aren’t you
expecting me to stay in character? To wear the lines you
wrote for me, in the means of keeping up this fantasy of love.
My smiles are scripted; as everyone else is helping to create
such a picture frame. The world helps paint our picture from
all the wildest of conversations; but the more they run out of
your mouth, the more they seem to taste so tame.

These tired eyes have searched in your eyes for a reflection
I can truly bend– so is the baggage claim of my baggy eyes;
visioning our broken pieces coming together to hopefully
mend.

I was your background character, your silent NPC in a game
you never knew I played, the first time. But when I stopped
watching, when I stopped turning toward you with secret
obsession – you started to feel the crush of my own crush.
Now you chase the echo of something that once held you
true—that hidden crush, that tender view, searching. But love,
my dear, truly YOU, should see how love is so **** blind.

painting my nails seems so unproductive
when i could be studying for math or german or history
but i'm thinking about you.

i don't know your favorite color, or i would have painted them that shade.
though, unless your favorite color is
pink
purple
silver
crusty blue or
clear
then i guess i couldn't anyway because those are the only colors i have.