art · culture · love · relatable · Uncategorized

Wild Sugar

I have sugar in my hair
it’s four in the morning.
I can’t sleep because I am scared
of the things
you left me

Marzipan marmalade
in the evening.
a fever forever burning.
They may have been bruised,
but they were just
as sweet.

I have sugar in my hair
it’s four in the morning.
I am dreaming about
being eaten
by leopards.

art · culture · life · love · relatable · Uncategorized

Budding Heads

We have all had
where the emphasis
is placed on

where weak and wild intermingle
to create confusion.
Where you wonder
if you’ve gotten relief and happiness confused with one another.

Well the saying goes,
April showers bring May flowers.
In turn, I will create tulips from my tears and feed the Earth with my shameless essence.
I will keep my heart on my sleeve, to show that it can be done.

Even if,
the cold air burns it
or the heat exhausts it.

If forests set themselves on fire to welcome new growth,
why shouldn’t I.

art · culture · life · relatable · Uncategorized

The Human in Humane

We would share coffee.
Thomas liked his coffee black,
and his sandwiches best without iceberg lettuce.
Sam would hold me and cry,
because she swore she could see the angel inside of me,
and it reminded her to feel.

Observations I would replay,
each day,
growing closer.
I would return to my home,
knowing that they had no home.

These people,
with rosy cheeks, cold skin, and warm hearts
taught me lessons.
Of loss,

Not all education comes in the form of a textbook,
or a scholarly seminar.
Some of the worlds most valuable education is from
the people
surrounding you.
The people who want to feel,
the people who feel deeply, but no one wants to listen.
They have lived things you have not,
they can humble you,
and teach you the beauty of humility.

Let us try to understand humanity,
before we try and control it.
Let us practice forgiveness,
before we cripple ourselves.

I urge you to smile,
to give,
to be patient,
and to try and
We are not all born into corruption,
or into stability.
But we are all born,
with love.

art · life · love · relatable · Uncategorized

Reach for Reality

 Chain smoking due to chain loathing. Desiring a head hush but instead receiving a head rush. An attempt to make sense of the silver snow in the sky.

These spots spin in streams – eyes open – eyes closed. They create images and ask me to touch them, but I never can.

Not physically. 

I stare at myself long enough to know that it is actually me looking back. Vision cutting in and out of focus, as pupils weaken.

I close my eyes and they dance. The silver  creates illusions of another vacant place where I might be able to fit. Like dimension diving from reflections off of glass, and the heat of a stare that you cannot see.

It just is.

Simply, not.


art · culture · life · love · relatable · Uncategorized

La paresse de l’intimité

I see

these people

with their paperback pussies,

dripping with illiteracy.

Flipping through pages and readers,

in hopes to receive a Masters in Love Making

but instead contracting something entirely different.

I feel

these people

with their shadowed hearts,

expecting it to grow in the dark.

Watering only to say it’s been done

not for nurture – just for fun.

I hear

these people

grasping at words,

that would have been better left


I want

these people

to know the weight on their chest,

of something worth more than a moment at best.

I see, I hear, I feel, I want. 

art · culture · life · love · relatable · Uncategorized

Ramble Rumble Six A.M. Fumble

With my friend, I smiled as large as my mouth would allow, and clapped my hands together with glass fingers. Smashing slivers, spurting blood into streams down silk skin. It was an act of choreographed desperation that backfired onto myself, and it was also a god damn mess. A dance that had been performed countless times, but there was a prop that hadn’t been invited before, my ego.

When I was coming home, I stopped to pet the perplexed feline perched behind silver Pontiac. I was looking for the companionship I had somehow lost – at three a.m. in a neighborhood that had such a high cost. Thick mats through soft white fur, I realized that this animal was far too complex to purr.

When I was alone, I was hoping luck would strike me with the inhalation, as I sat on broken patio with humid ventilation. But when the words didn’t fall from the tips, I began to unravel myself in the act of silent trips. So I shook my skin like honeydew and bellowed out:

We can sit in loud car, windows down and pretend that the music is the cause. However you and I both know that we are simply trying to hide our deep flesh flaws. 

You see —-  it’s a serotonin siege, a war that is always self induced against your control. The louder you scream the worse it becomes. So sit down quiet, pursing lips – petting cat – pushing gas – singing solitude; because your time may never come to be seen for what you truly are. A fucking work of art.

art · culture · family · life · love · Uncategorized

K, More Of A Story.

I remember.

I remember walking my younger brother home from school when I was a child. He loved rocks, and I mean loved. He would fill each of his pockets to the brim. Some days, he would collect so many rocks he would have to resort to using his shirt. He would lift the end of his shirt up and tighten his grip with one fist, exposing his small torso to the sun, and then pile rocks in with the other. He would literally weigh himself down with these rocks, because he saw beauty in these tiny pieces of minerals and earth.

I tried to forget.

One day, while we were walking home, Kristopher slowly trudged behind me – gathering rocks. Suddenly, something took over me, I spun around and yelled at him because I thought he was moving too slowly. Misguided, yet honest anger aimed directly at him from my lips, like acid fire. I had a bad day at school, and I was impatient. It was as if I somehow forgotten that the person I spoke to was someone I loved so deeply.

I remember.

I regretted it the minute it came spewing from my mouth. His fist that was holding his mineral filled shirt, let go. I watched as his collection and hard work fell to the floor. He was devastated. On that day, he did not get the satisfaction to experience the weight of his love. I took that from him.

Here was this innocent child, gathering rocks, and there I was -flustered and upset because he was enjoying himself and I had a bad day.

At the time, I saw this as just “some shitty thing I did”.

Now I see.

Though this memory makes me feel sick to my stomach, it’s important to me. This shows me that I am human. This makes me understand that people can be so unintentional with their words to others. This gives me hope that maybe others know that feeling of regret. That maybe they’ll stop before they try and take pieces away from people.

Pieces of their innocence, their joy, their youth. Confidence. Wonder. 

That maybe, just maybe, they realize that every person is this small child with rocks in their pockets. That everyone has someone who loves them, and that everyone already has to deal with the hardest critic, themselves.