Your pain (poem)

Let me take your pain

You shine




But your pain

Hangs, like charred fringes

On the edges of


I push through

The burnt decay

The mud


Just in the distance

Just out of reach

If I just push hard enough

K-k-keep pushing

I can take the sea of pain

That floods you

So that, maybe

We can both float


So we can be current


So that when night falls

You can rest

Your head on my chest

Transforming from the man

I love

To a child

I adore

And maybe then

Those fringes

Will fall off of the world



It’s Not Enough (Poem)

The love  

You give 

Is not enough 


Why is this so hard? 

to say? 

In ways 

You’re perfect 


You’re everything 

You’re the blood cells 

That pump my heart 


You’re the milky way. 

You’re every element  

Every line 

Every soul 

In between 


In between 

I don’t know 

Where you are 

I don’t know  

How you feel 

Mostly, I don’t know. 


How to tell you 

It’s not  


Writing Practice (Writing Motivation?)

Sometimes you’ve just got to write. You don’t know what to say, because you know it’s all been said before. Not only that but it’s been said better. It’s been said by geniuses and philosophers and poets by the dozens. Histories best have said the only words you can choke up better than you can think them.

I’m not sure why you’ve got to write if all you’ve written has been written before, but my god, you’ve got to do it! I mean, what else are you going to do? Sit there with a pen in your mouth or keyboard in your lap waiting for something to happened? Something magical, something different, something that will be better than the something that has become your dreadful life?

No, you’ve got to write and I know you don’t know what to write at all. You don’t know what words you want to piece together or the sounds you want those words to make, but just start writing! Just start combining these strange symbols and say something, say something. Anything. It doesn’t even have to beautiful or anything, just say something, because sometimes you’ve just got to write.

Writing Practice (Short Story)

At 8 PM she sat in her cluttered room, with dust in it’s creaky tiles. She had the plastic pen in her mouth. It was battered at the end, where she chewed on it, like the meal she’d skipped. Her coffee stained notebook splayed across a dirty table waiting to be written in. What was she going to tell it? She didn’t know. She had hardly lived long enough to have any stories to tell.  How could she stray beyond that white painted picket fence? How could she step off the  porch into the world that was never all that fond of her? How was she going to leave her life to create a life worth writing about? Maybe it wasn’t perfect, but her home was her home after all.

She closed the tiny book and crawled onto the floor, where she spread her limbs long like a rug. First, she looked up to her ceiling and felt her mind shut off. Second, she turned her head, left, to face her window. It was so large that there wasn’t much room left for any of the wall. Just an inch or two around the perimeter. It was already dark outside. The snow was packing up around her like the Styrofoam she used in her essential oil packages. The ones that made just enough money for rent and “a simple life.”

She thought about how far her creations must have traveled. Once, she recalled, she got an order from Australia. That was on the other side of the world. She imagined the people her package must have met, the borders it crossed and the oceans it could have fallen into. And what if it had fallen into them? She thought that the cardboard box would expand with water and sink deep into the depths. Seeing things that no human has ever seen. Down into the ocean, if it wasn’t broken by then. Down it would go until there was no light. Where there were creatures that she couldn’t imagine but who could see her very clearly-no, she thought, it’s better to be here.

She looked across her quiet street. She lived in a “good neighborhood.” Her house was enormous and beautiful. It was divided among several dozens of people, each allotted a room and access to a floor washroom and a floor kitchen. Her housemates were young and unsuccessful like herself. However, they were different.

They would go to clubs on Fridays and buy cats with their boyfriends. They’d try cooking classes and taking up a new hobby every month or two. Some were in school and others worked long hours in cities far away. She wasn’t jealous, though, because that all sounded much too hectic. She would have no time for herself, she thought.

She looked across her quiet street and saw a light go on. Her neighbors were very successful. The kind of people that have their heads up as if there were strings attached, strings that pulled them higher whenever someone from her home stepped out. They had swimming pools, tennis courts and large libraries where they would sit and work until late into the night.

Every night, at 8:15 PM the fair skinned family of four would flick on the light to their large library. She saw it from where she lay. She thought that the yellow glow of the room looked very comfortable. She imagined that they were all reading their favorite books, that the temperature was just right and that their lives were beautiful. One parent reading the Catcher in the Rye, the other was reading Walden. The young boy was reading about spiders and the young girl was reading about Sherlock Holmes. That’s what she imagined, anyway. She wished that she could write the way these authors wrote and live the lives that these readers lived.

She stopped looking at the family and pulled her knees close to her face. She could see her nose in the inner corner of each eye and just stared at it. She had spent her whole day doing nonsense, and was so tired of doing nonsense. There wasn’t much else left to do, besides nonsense, or staring at her nose, although they were both the same.

She took in a breath. She felt the air in her nose, on the precipice of her throat, unafraid. Felt it dive deep into the dark of her lungs. Felt it run in circles, expanding her stomach, until it was too large to stay any longer and out it went. Into the world again, but now it was different.

In fact, it was entirely different and it knew how to be different. It went through the change and knew how to exist after the point at which it became something new. Another seamless transition in nature. Why, she thought, oh why, could she not be so seamless? After all, she, too, was a part of nature. Why then, was it so hard for her to do the same?

She fell asleep on her floor that night. The air must’ve been scared suddenly, the way that she was: she stopped breathing.

She always wanted to play tennis but was scared that the ball might hit her too hard and she would die. Maybe she would have. She always wanted to fall in love but was scared that the fall might have killed her. Maybe it would have. She always wanted to see the world but thought the journey would be the end of her life. Maybe it would have. She died that night, although, you can’t really call it that.

To die, is to stop living. Inside that home, where she was safe and secure, she didn’t wake up, and it was almost as though, it didn’t even matter. As if nothing was lost because there wasn’t anything there in the first place.

Another Untitled Poem

I finally listened to his songs

Really listened

But I heard it

The very next day

Today, I finally listened to his songs

They are happy-sad songs

My favourite

The kind that sing sad things

But somehow make you happy

Or sing happy things

But somehow make you sad

I thought about “almosts”

I think you know what I mean

I’d really like to think you do

I’d like to think

That you stare up at your cieling


I like to think that

When I stare up at mine


Like in this moment

Your room is also dark

And your house is also quiet

It’s silly

But it makes me smile


I just wanted to say

I finally listened to his songs.


I’m Holding An Object, The Object Is Holding Me (Writing Practice)

I’m holding an object.

I don’t know what it looks like. It feels cold and blue. It’s sharp, yet, slightly soft in that way that vision gets when you’ve lost your 20/20. It weighs as much as I do. It weighs more. Somehow, through the grace of God, though it feels like Satan, it’s light. Light enough to carry on my back the way I carry my back; without really meaning to. I’m holding it everywhere, it somehow sank into my veins. It runs feral yet cultivated the way electric currents run through wires. I feel a throbbing in my veins. A dull pain. A dull day. A dull same. It’s the same object that I was born with. A family lineage. Oh, the stories it could tell. It would tell about mad cousins, running in squares, “I’m running in circles.” It would tell about lurking in vital organs, pretending to be vital organs. It would tell of women destroyed, making them see monsters when looking at beauty. It would tell about men that took it’s hand and whisked it into the sunset with a noose in the other. I’m not sure what to call it. It has many names. Truth, insanity and many other letters hanging delicately in thin air, the way that it does. A feeling, it’s a moment, it’s a dark cloud that hovers over my head. Sitting over my head I feel nauseated that it stays so still and then suddenly bursts open. Raining down tiny hurricanes but sometimes candy, like a pinata. It jolts me awake, then leaves me dreary. It’s like the friend I never asked for, or the line I never wanted that was drawn upon me by my maker. It awakens me, enlightens me, it frightens me.  It’s the voice I hear, it’s the voice that replies, it’s a conversation above my eyebrows, that always predicts doom.

I’m holding an object- or maybe, and I think this is really the case-, the object is holding me.

Writing Practice (Intro)

Hey guys! Long time, no write… er long time, no read…er.. I’m not really sure how to phrase this. You’re going to have to pardon post. I’m not wearing my glasses and my brain went to sleep about 2 hours ago. In short, if you do not enjoy reading nonsense, then it should follow, that you will not enjoy reading this.

I have written several things since we last spoke, none of which I actually published. They remain in the dusty shelves of my imagined library that is titled “drafts.”

I am not really sure what to tell you. My life has been incredibly stagnant and awkward which isn’t really all that unusual for myself. There are some things that have been especially stagnant and awkward but I’d rather not go into that for obvious reasons (the cringe will be too real.)

I want to start sharing some poorly written content with you all because I want to write more. Likely, these posts will be titled “Writing Practice” and will be full of typos. These will be the sorts of things you write at 1 am in the morning when you’re life is spiraling out of control before you ever really got it in control, in the first place. That’s not to say that they will be depressing, although they might very well be, that’s just to say that they will be true to life. True to it’s chaos, well, in so far as I can see.

Anyway, I’ve rambled on for long enough. Talk-um-write-um-read-