Liquid Romance

Liquid romance.

Fluid, in nature.

Deplorable, in hindsight.

How many times will I give way

To the relentless waves

Of these half empty oceans I dive into?

Head first.

I never even test the waters,

I just dive Right in,

And let the undertow take me.


Ordinary Desires

She sat there,

Staring through the smoke of her cigarette.

And she thinks,

I loathe you.

I love you.

Don’t ever come back.

Please come home.

A painful soliloquy she recites.

An arduous cycle to fall into.

How cynical,

To want to be wanted this way.

To keep lighting a flame already smothered.

To breathe warm air onto cold,

hand-me-down embers.

How vain and trivial.

How unusual,

But pivotal.

She needs this.

This vicious cycle,

That solemn recital,

A dance she’s learned over and over.

But she struggles,

With this second hand choreography.

Dancing from do to don’t,

from praise to blame.

Second guessing a second guess.

one day she’ll figure it out.

She’ll figure out every step, turn, and pause.

In time, she will stop holding onto missteps she already took.

She’ll focus on the steps ahead.

At the next recital, she won’t dance between do and don’t-

Loathe or love, 

step or pause.

This was just practice. 

31, October


A day to celebrate those who already wear masks.

Although these faces speak more to themselves today,

than the smiles they depict

every other.

Today, they wear their monsters and demons on the outside,

on their sleeves.

Not a person within a character,

But a character within a person.

And why they chose such attire?

A choice that came from within-

To give the world what it wants,

or a symbol of what they favour.

On this day, the 31st of October,

they don’t have to be but a demon 

behind a fraudulent face.

Today, they can let it all hang out,

give the world what they want

And just smile, within. 

Whole Together

Pierce me again,

With those eyes like arrows.

I love the way they stab me,

straight through my heart,

just like the first time.

That very first time I was split in half.

The first time my life was someone else’s too.

And how I long for this look again.

How I yearn for the tension

that pulled us together.

Without it,

my life is my own.

And I am still whole.

I am still here-


but not complete.

Left with but a hole in my bleeding heart.

So it bleeds on,

a vacant room inside my soul.

And I have tried to fill it with another…

Another set of Bright eyes

to sink to blank stares.

Another youthful friendship

to age too quickly.

It would seem this room belongs to one,

and no other.

It would seem this heart still bleeds for old arrows,

these eyes long to be seen again,

This Room wants to be full again.

And it could be ours once more,


And complete.

So I can be half,

And we can be whole,


More Than Houses 

Something solid,

sturdy to stand on.

That’s what I need.

Something more than houses

made from straw.

A floor I can stomp on relentlessly,

walls I can lean on hopelessly.

I want something built to last,

and to hold the weight of the ins and outs-

the ups and downs.

We don’t need a mansion,

just walls to lean on, and a floor to stomp on-

a solid roof to live under.

Because I would rather sleep in a box made from stone,

than a castle made from sand.

I would rather sleep 

without the floor washing away,

or walls of straw collapsing.

Just something small

and sturdy to stand on-

to lean on.

Because big things don’t matter

if they can so easily be swept away.

Thick Skin

Bound in leather this notebook reads,

a thick skin wrapped around fragile pages-

filled with fragile words.

The scribbles and scratches of an untamed mind stain each piece with conversation,

dialogue to another person.

The perfect me.

The one that lives on the pages.

The one that humbles me, and reminds me that mistakes can be forgiven,

And most often, forgotten.

So when I open this book,

I’m greeted by a mirror.

A reflection.

A delicately grim apology

That begs forgiveness.

And it seems I am forgiven.

A new page, means new lines,

And that’s life really.

A look at yourself.

Page upon page of scribbles and scratches-

Day after day of humble conversations.

Everyday is a new chapter, though.

A chance to tell a new story,

you’ve just got to find the thick skin

to hold it all together.

Prolific Orchards 

Who are we to talk?

We are the fruits of a guilty conscience.

Well, the Apple doesn’t fall from the tree.

But not the tree, nor the apple are at fault.

It’s the man that planted them.

The man that nurtured these prolific orchards,

extending his reach through their fingers.

Dropping apple after apple,

leaving trails of fruit,

the common denominator isn’t hard to find.

You don’t even have to look.

Just follow along the path of bad seeds and you’ll find it.

A tree of his own, nursing the rest.

The rest of us.

And we’ll all fall.

We’ll be left at the foot of this tree,

hands too frail to pick us up.

Left to live and grow,

and drop apples of our own.


So here I am again,

in the cross hairs of indecision.

To stay here would be my death,

to come back, my suicide.

I live and die there,

in my sleep.

And every day I resurrect myself,

A new man with the same dreams.

And you’re always in them.

A life and death of your own.

But you always stay, and I always come home.

That’s your home now.

And there you live,

a vague watercolor face in my sleep.

I can’t continue these cloudy inaugurations,

These lucid beginnings, Ambiguous endings.

We can’t keep meeting like this.

You aren’t welcome there anymore.

I’m sure I’ll see you again,

But for now,

I need to sleep on my own.

Creatures Of Habit

This rock.

This tiny blue marble floating in the darkness.

The birth, and resting place of vicious, simple creatures.

Creatures of habit. 

At the hands of these sentient machines, blue will fade to Black.

Autonomous little sheep, dance like marionettes dangling under the Shepard.

Powerful like God’s, they spit in the face of the darkness.

And just like a man that throws dust into the wind

No one will be blinded but themselves.

That’s okay.

It’s just one rock.

Just one tiny blue marble…

In the Arms of Bliss 

It’s strange how we break down mountains from the bottom of a valley.

I guess you can say misery loves company.

I guess it feels good when landslides sink to our level.

Oh, how I’ve misjudged the tender feeling of ignorance.

How wonderful it feels to be in the arms of bliss.

We all do it.

We all hug it back.

We all let sweet nothings whisper in our ears.

Telling us to stand amongst the burning trees and set fires,

or to throw stones in glass houses and watch the walls shatter.

At the very least, redundant.

At most, repulsive-

to let silver tongues lick our necks, and whisper to us, like we never had a choice at all.

But we did.

We chose to dwell in valleys,

and to bring mountains down with us.

How I hate what we’ve become.