I'm in that headspace
Where everything I say
Gets written down
And maybe
Just maybe one day
In time
These words will form a short sentence or rhyme.

You wrote the notes inside your secret diary.
And day by day, the pages filled up.

You got yourself another set of blank pages.
And to this day, you keep writing more.

If you're writing
word for word for word,
what's the point if it isn't heard?

You're Hemingway in every right.
Give them lines.
Show them what your heart feels like.
Share them.
Wear them like your favorite long-sleeve.
Bare them like the nakedness
you feel when you're writing.

Again and again, you contemplate letting it out,
the secrets of your inner thoughts,
begging to be screamed.

You want the world to know what it feels like,
the boys, the toys, the heartbreaks, and the dreams.

Don't hide it.
Let it be seen.
Your success isn't by their acceptance;
success is being free.

If you're writing
word for word for word,
what's the point if it isn't heard?

You're Hemingway in every right.
Give them lines.
Show them what your heart feels like.
Share them.
Wear them like your favorite long-sleeve.
Bare them like the nakedness
you feel when you're writing.

Not everyone will love every wrinkle when you're sixty-three.
Maybe your rhymes aren't for them, but they're for me.
Share them.
I wanna hear them.
Let them roar.

The pages aren't blank.
You know you wrote them for more.

If you're writing
word for word for word,
what's the point if it isn't heard?

You're Hemingway in every right.
Give them lines.
Show them what your heart feels like.
Share them.
Wear them like your favorite long-sleeve.
Bare them like the nakedness
you feel when you're writing.

a wand of disappearances
operate in our very
midst
who is the conductor
of its vanishing
gist?

where once our fellow
poets did pleasantly
reside
now the wicked wand
has eradicated their
bide

numerous blank spaces
symbolize the conductor's
vice
employing a wand which
has emptied the
rice

black the hour
black the day
a black instrument
whisking them all too
suddenly away
a wand so dark
of intent
wanting to wane
our writers tent

the subtracting conductor
will be planning future
disappearances
so be mindful of its
wand's unsolicited
clearances

Because you will live forever.

You will exist inbetween the pages of a private notebook.

You will sleep under the pillow with the handwritten poems.

You will live as a black art in the form of words.

But your name will never be mentioned.


Your sideways smile is etched in the mind and cannot be erased.

Your stolen, yet steady gaze is burned within the heart.

Your fingers that produces music from the tips are longed to be held.

But you will never be drawn, only written.


Your voice is the most precious music ever heard.

Your spoken words are poetry decorating the air.

Your laughter sends vibrations through the soul.

But you will not be heard, only imagined.


Despite all these,

You are real. You are here. And here you will stay.

Do not make me fall for you. For if I do, you will live forever. Not only in me, but in others as well.

And if this story will ever be done,

I will close the red, leather-bound notebook

and say,

Until Another Time.

"his twinkling emerald eyes, meet mine"

And when I turn back
the first thing I see
were his eyes
eyes shining like stars
his emerald eyes
which looked straight at me
with a force
I’ve never before felt.
And in that moment,
I knew
he was my chosen one.

"i was ****** on satin sheets"

She was a ******* storm
in the bed.
The girl who wore nerdy glasses
and plaid skirts
****** me rough
on the black satin sheets.
She was like a dream
that night,
a dream that I have been
thinking about
since that exotic
lip-wetting chocolaty night.
No woman ever
had the pleasure
of bringing me to my knees,
she did, that too
from afar.
In a world of
expensive cars and motor bikes,
she was a cycle,
preferred by few,
like me.
She didn’t just
grabbed my hair,
she grabbed my heart
in her little fist.
But in the end
she managed to do
what none could,
penetrate the wall
separating me and myself.

I like
that you
see me
as your
favorite
color

Everytime I picked up a pen I felt progress
And everytime it touched paper the weight of my world had been lifted
Always drawn back to the top of my snare drum
Where I wrote most of my art
Resting on a A4 note pad, trying to figure out the best way to express both my head and my heart
They've always been so far apart
Tuned to different frequencies
But I'll try my best to broadcast both parts