We existed in the space between asterisks

The breath in the crevice of a message

A smile at the fleeting thought

Our words poured from our mind and lips like water down a hillside

Pet name after nickname after game

And game of holding hands

And sharing kisses

And little embraces

All within the space of a couple of words

And two black stars


A love poem dedicated to the little goblin that inspires me. The reader can speculate if the goblin was borne out of fictitious desire or to portray who rests in my heart. Although it’s shorter, I couldn’t bear to add anything on to it. To write more would’ve desecrated its simple beauty. Enjoy the time with your loved ones, folks, even if it’s a hundred miles away and in between the space of messages.


Oh Dear

I’m sorry, no one told you?

No one made the off-hand comment

The afterthought

Proposed the question?

Did they not care enough to tell you?

To inform

Yet you never inquired

You never wanted to believe otherwise

However, I can only keep up a pretense for so long

Especially when everyone else is in on the game

Everyone has placed their bets

Called their bluffs

Watched their hands as readily as they watched mine

Because who knew what I would write next

Declare to the world

To myself

What decision would find itself in my mind

Lost with a sense of purpose

Perhaps I should’ve mailed the secret

Or whispered it in your ear while you slept on the couch

Or even called you so that I could run when I wanted to

Away from your predictable reply

Yet still so unpredictably disastrous

You may flatten city blocks

Or you may merely dent the sidewalk

Either way, did no one tell you?

How unfortunate


I apologize for the abrupt ending, yet the ending I keep closer to my heart than my keyboard. I enjoy wordplay, and while the lines in this may be considered marginally clever, they aren’t the normal rhyming stanzas. As with everything I write, however, I hope that my reader enjoys my organized ramblings.



I imagine us on a Sunday

With nothing to do

I imagine us with our instruments

Playing a song or two

I imagine you dressing my wounds

While I steal your sweater

I imagine you kissing my knuckles

To make me feel better

I imagine driving downtown with you

Or to the big city, if you want

I imagine blasting the radio

To ignore society’s taunt

I imagine you wearing my jacket

As we pull up to the bookshop

As we sit and browse for hours

Neither of us can stop

I imagine a future with you

And I think it’s coming soon

I imagine laying with you on the hood of my car

Under a full, bright moon

I imagine you in my arms

Whispering how you’re here to stay

But for now, we can’t see each other

And you feel so far away


A poem written on a whim, yet the rhyme scheme was good enough to post. Recent events have put me far away from the rest of humanity, as I’m sure it’s done to almost everyone. While this is a love poem, an undercurrent of bitterness permeates the blissful and longing words. However, as with most my writings, it is merely a work of fiction.

short stories


I was handmade. I was dipped and shaped and formed through my earliest memories, then tested and scented and packaged. I sat on display with my brothers and sisters until a woman bought me, who wore the drabbest of clothing and sadness in her eyes.

She kept me on her desk, in a brass holder so my wax wouldn’t drip. The scratch of matches always excited me, for a second later, my flame illuminated her humble abode. Masks and miniatures lined her walls, from automatons to music boxes to little bits of broken glass bottles that shimmer in the light. Every night, when the sun had long retired and the moonlight was too weak, she ignited my spark and worked on her latest project. Sometimes she sang when she worked, in a tune always slightly off-key yet lovely all the same. The wind sang with her when she worked, yet always stole my flame from my wick as well.

I don’t remember when she started crying. It felt like months had passed since she bought me, and more of my siblings were strewn about the worn wooden surface. We all stood in mismatched holders, some made of ceramic and others of tin. Our voices were hushed as she entered, and the silence that followed almost suffocated our flames. Tears were dripping down her face, tears that splashed onto the wayward papers and extinguished some of my family’s flames. She sniffed and wiped her cheek with the back of her hand and set to work on a small piece featuring two masquerade dancers. Her hands shook as she molded their forms from lifeless clay, so she worked until the sun began to bid good morning to us. A few of my siblings had sacrificed themselves for her arduous and toiling night, and we all paid our quiet respects to their lost flames.

My wax was halfway gone when she came into the room crying again. More masks and more statues lined her walls, and her work had turned out even more heartbreakingly beautiful than ever before. Strange people wandered through this room in search of the perfect object, occasionally, and she always provided them with exactly what they needed. Now, as she painted the masquerade dancers with a clear coat of polish, tears threatened to dilute the shiny paint. Her hands trembled again, and more of my siblings slipped quietly off in the night, only ever offering a slight hiss and thin trail of smoke as they ascended.

I was the only candle left when she stopped making the masks and the miniatures. Grief spells grew more frequent, and more and more tears stained her wood. If I could trace their path, it would tell the story of our past few months together. Her art didn’t disappear from the shelves, but people stopped coming into the room. At times, when it seemed that I couldn’t fight off the darkness, she would begin to talk to her statues. Always light chatter, a soft murmur in the ever-present silence. Perhaps that’s what gave me the strength to continue my vigil, even as the melted bodies of my family lay around me, hugging the holders in a last plea for life. Tears continued to stain the masks and the miniatures.

My time was soon. I could feel my wick shortening with each passing day, as she used me for longer and longer periods of time. Statues began to collect dust on the shelves, even as she made an effort to keep them alive with conversation. What turned from idle chatter was now a diverse web of a family, from the laughing cousins to the solemn uncles and aunts. She spoke of her day, asked of theirs, made jokes, bantered, yet never laughed. And her smile always made my flame wane. As the last of my wax melted, spilling onto the holder and tarnishing the polished brass, she laid her head down with me. Brown curls obscured her face, but even as we drew our last breaths together, I knew she was still crying. With the last of my strength, I allowed my flame to burn brighter than ever before. Light just barely touched the edges of the room, but in one corner, I found a wooden cradle painted the way all the miniatures were. A fine coat of dust desecrated its simple beauty, and inside of the cradle, there was a single pair of baby shoes and a bib, both never worn. With a quiet hiss, my flame extinguished. She never woke up.


I started with a beginning line, then progressed from there when I wrote this short story. A bit of my inspiration pulled from Ernest Hemingway’s extremely brief tale “For sale: baby shoes, never worn.” While I have very little experience in tragedy, it made it easier to write this piece from the candle’s rather apathetic perspective. However, despite the candle’s apathy, it is my hope as the writer that reader can feel empathy towards the poor woman in this story.



Sometimes I just stand there.

I just stand on the edge of the world

I let my breath hitch in my throat

I let my heart choke out the music of the world

I close my eyes

And when my heart slows, I listen to the gulls

And the crashing of the waves

I can see the gray sky already

On a day in a future that may never happen

Or a past that happened too long ago

I can hear the piccolo

Or the screams

Or the laughter

I can feel the sand between my toes

And reality sits below me

Yet time still orchestrates above

No one bothers me when I’m here.

No children

No people






Everyone sits on the other side of the globe

For I stand on its edge

No shoes

Swim trunks

No shirt

And fresh scars lining my abdomen

I take a deep breath


And release the years of disgust and distaste and sourness

Throw my secret into the ocean

Yet don’t follow

I won’t let my past weigh me down.

For I am a person

Not a memory


A description of my happy place. No witty remark, no imparted wisdom. Just a poem.



One dose of the grandiose

Wasn’t enough to keep you here

You left my side and my eyes wide

That’s when everything disappeared

Two cries of blatant lies

Tore a rift and left us stiff

And as we drift there came a shift

Anger came to pass yet the broken looking-glass

Still remains and I still refrain

Three troubles seemed to double

As we ran away from this day

I cam to free the placidity

Of this time yet through my rhyme

It only strengthened and lengthened our woes

Four wishes set on dishes placed too high

Five ambitions broke traditions

Six thoughts and my mind fought

Seven declarations tore my patience

And one does of the grandiose

Wasn’t what you sought

So now, let me rot


Another bitter and longing poem, yet this time composed without a person in mind, merely a line. Inspiration struck my mind at an ungodly hour (as it is wont to do) and what started as a simple play on words turned into an entire poem. How many times have we befriended someone, yet truly grown attached to our mind’s perception of them, what we thought of as their potential, only to be disappointed when they don’t meet our lofty expectations? Too often for comfort, or at least that’s the answer from a person who spends most of their time lost in books. Although, most people I encounter can say the same.



I never see your tears

I never see your fears

I never see you here

I can feel your grief

Heavy, beyond belief

A silence that suffocates

I try to placate the mood

But it’s like throwing water in the sea

It just adds to your misery

A misery so palpable I can feel it too

I see you use tissues, going through the box

Yet hiding your face

I never see the place your mind takes

“***, are you okay?”

You turn away

I recognize your stride

Of someone trying to hide

The sickness inside

I can never see your sadness

I can never know about your pain

And everything, you’ve always taught us,

Would happen again and again

“***, are you fine?”

Don’t keep yourself in line

Show me the hurt

What you think you must skirt around

Tears fall to the ground

But you still wipe them away

It’s not your fault

You never had a say

Chemical imbalance

Is what stole the day

I want to tell you that it will pass

That what you have will never last

But I’m too choked up on tears to say the words

I would turn from your problems too

If I didn’t know I couldn’t take them from you

Please, ***, just be okay

Get up to see another day

Fight through the grief for my greed

Battle the pain, because I need you




There is a silence that comes with being in a room with someone who struggles with their own mind and thoughts, and it’s not a silence I could ever describe. It’s worse than the one at funerals, because at least there is a peace in that silence. If I had any experience on a battlefield, I might describe it as one looking at the remnants of war, from the fresh corpses to the mementos and lives they used to carry. It’s heavy and thick and suffocating, yet it is nothing, I imagine, compared to what those who must constantly war feel. Be kind to the mentally ill, folks. Walk a lifetime in their shoes before you judge.


Would It Matter to You

Would it matter to you

If I was black or blue

From bruises given to me

Or from the ones I gave to a few?

Would it matter if I could fly

Or crushing ants made me cry

Because their lives aren’t something we should pass by

Since they still have souls

It wouldn’t matter to me

If you were in prison or roamed free

Walking the streets or confined in a cell

Living in heaven or going through hell

Because I still love you

So if I told you I deviated from the normal path

Would I have to face your wrath?

Or would you shun me like I think you would

You don’t have to agree, but I think you should

At least understand my heart

Which overflowed from the start

And it couldn’t contain everything inside

So I stopped hiding feelings I tried hard to hide

Now that you know me outside of the game

Do you still love me just the same?


This poem was written a couple of months ago, and a lot has changed since those couple of months. While this poem is plagued with uncertainty and sad devotion, it also depicts hope. A silver lining in the clouds, and I’m happy to report that the bad weather eventually dissipated, metaphorically speaking. And, perhaps naively, I still hope that the silver lining will prevail.


A Day in the Life

Every morning I put on my scars

Just to get yelled at for still having them

Every night I pull at my hair

I shaved my head to break the habit

And feel my nails

Short for scars

Dig into my scalp

I tattoo my arm

And scrub at it in the shower until my arm turns red

Because I don’t need another person asking, “what’s that”

Every morning I wake up and cry

Because I watched someone die in my dreams

And since they’re made of paper others don’t understand

But the sun hits differently when it’s reflecting off my tears

I say goodbye to my little night thoughts

And birds

I sit through another day of orchestration

Composing my life symphony and desperately hoping I can share it with you

At twelve I go out to draw new scars on my knuckles

And come inside only to have others turn away

I’ve been told more times than I can count to “go easy”

But I bleed to know I am human

I feel pain to know I am alive

I watch my hands shake and redden and swell

Just to see them differently from my vampire body

I scream at the punching bag

Use my anger to destroy its sharp leather

Dance with kicks and hooks and jabs

Fly for five minutes

Then the song changes

I go inside

Every night, I bandage my scars

Hide them from the people in my head

And wait to draw them again

So I can get yelled at in the morning


I’ve taken up the wonderful art of kickboxing, much to the dismay of many people I know. I live very intensely, and as a result, I have returned home with knuckles skinned and busted more times than I can count. There’s a vigor to kickboxing, a vitality you cannot receive unless faced in a life or death situation. While I am very much an amateur, I wish to continue the sport until my hands break or I lose interest, whichever comes sooner. Needless to say, those around me hardly agree with that sentiment and usually worry about the new blood. If you favor a warped sense of humor, you will understand my delight when I see others pale at the sight of my freshly-wounded fist. Take up the activity, my friends. It is good for the body, for the mind, and for the soul.


Am I Enough to You

My achievements run miles long

I’m reliable through and through

But when I see your face

And watch your pace

I think, “am I enough to you?”

I’ve had 4.0s for years

My work ethic is unique

But when you’re here

I disappear

And start to become so weak

Maybe it’s my smile

And the way my teeth always show

Maybe it’s my laugh

Or how I vocalize what I know

Perhaps you don’t like my attitude

I’m made of spikes instead of curves

Or how I hit when I’m upset

Or become a huge bundle of nerves

I’ve got friends that run for miles

I’m a wonderful pal for more than a few

But lying in bed

With nothing but my head

I think “am I enough to you?”

So maybe I’ve got flaws

We all have a few

Maybe I’m too mean or nice

Or can’t decide on a view

You probably hate the way I walk

Like a freight train about to crash

You probably hate how I say the truth

It always comes out too brash

I’m a little strange and stubborn

But I’m willing to take your side and see

Make my day

Just please say

“You are enough to me”


There have been plenty of people in my life I’ve tried to impress. My parents, friends, even close family members. Everyone puts on a show for others, I believe, and we do so because humans are social creatures and we need acceptance. Crave it, more than perhaps anything else. I wrote this poem a while ago, at a time where I was both uncertain with whose acceptance I desired and how to achieve it. That wonderful feeling of complete uncertainty, you know?