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?


Phantom Love

You are my Christine

And I’m your phantom ghoul

We had to change the story

Because it didn’t follow the rule

First off, I can’t sing

But your voice makes me want to fly

I don’t think in my secret home

We’d have to say goodbye

There’s no Raoul to keep us a part

But the rest of the opera still shuns our love

There’s no angel to help us out

I’ll admit I’m not from above

While my skin wasn’t scarred from birth

I still have ugliness inside

But your love helps me through the pain

I try so hard to hide

We have several Darogas

Who check up on us from time to time

And we’re dancing to the organ

When we here that welcome chime

We can still rule Paris

From our underground lake

But we’d still have to hide our love

Until we could escape

But once we’re across the ocean

There’s nowhere I’d rather be

Than at your side on Coney Island

And hear you’ll stay with me


A poem loosely based off the genius of Gaston Leroux and all his proteges. For years, I’ve loved Phantom of the Opera, a timeless classical romance and the gateway of modern mystery novels. When I was younger, as most little girls did, I thought of myself as Christine. However, as I grow older and converse with the person my heart begins to grow fond for, I find myself in more of the phantom’s position. I desperately hope that our ending isn’t parallel to poor, unhappy Erik’s demise.



Doubt is the thing that eats me inside out

Questioning the life I live

What I did

And who I am

This is a question that makes me understand less about myself

And more about society

The variety of people makes it harder to choose

There’s more to lose

When you are expected to pick one out of a million

A billion stars in the galaxy

And only one supports life

But I don’t know if my life is worth the energy it took to create me

I can’t see myself in the mirror because all I know is my present

Which is weighed down by my past

I feel my life moves too fast

And slow at the same time

I can’t tell people what is mine

Because I don’t know what I possess

I like to digress from the natural path

That only makes it harder to exist

Yet I persist and hope that what I have is right

In hindsight

I should’ve played mute


I am at a very uncertain time in my life, yet I feel as if this is the path I’ve chosen to walk from the beginning. I have a hard time talking to other people, to communicating with friends and family, and even reflecting upon my own past. I hope that there is a viable excuse for this state of mind, and I believe that it will disappear eventually. The style of this poem is a little different, yet I enjoy writing like this because it feels halfway between a couplet and a spoken word. One of the most important things to know, my friends, is yourself. Everything else is only a consequence.



My portrait’s kinda crooked

I tried to tilt it back

But then it slid off the wall

And I lost my track

My records started to scratch

The song sounded lame

And my head was pounding

Because the song had no name

I sat in my room

And felt utterly alone

One moment I was melting

And the other cold to the bone

The walls breathe and whisper

When they think I don’t hear

But where they’re gone

It’s the silence I really fear

My head’s a little displaced

I don’t have room to complain

Because I have a papercut

Compared to other’s pain

My skin feels backwards

But I can’t turn it around

Not when my birds are watching

Otherwise their fuss will make a sound

I find I kinda miss you

And everyone I’ve hurt

But now you’re all in the clouds

And I’m crawling in the dirt

I feel stupid sick and foolish

But at least I look okay

Maybe this week got started all wrong

Tomorrow’s a new day

Tomorrow I’ll stop missing you

And go outside the home

Maybe then, it’ll stop being “if” not “when”

I start to feel alone

You’ll never read a word I write

I’ll never give you that chance

But when we’re old and shrewd

I’ll meet you back in France


A rather sarcastically whimsical poem about a once dear friend of mine. We had a wonderful time together over the course of about one or two years, then dissolved into a bitter acquaintance. I wrote this poem a while ago, long after we stopped speaking but near enough to the present that I can still feel my frustration from his words. Give me a nice little comment if you ever get your hands on this, won’t you, Zockales?



Everything started out slow

We didn’t have places to go

We had to know everyone in the village

Before invaders started to pillage

Our treasures and delights

Speed up the world and its light

The sun sets faster when you’re running from time

Because it always runs better

As we crawl out of the slime

Civilization begins to start

Everyone walks around with metal in their heart

We start to create words meant to part conversations

Small talk

Takes a walk

Into a town that started small

But now grows tall

With walls to keep out invaders

Later, we begin to hate our fate

Envious of those in a population so ginormous

We try to take on new forms

This is what we call societal norms

And it shapes our new state

We debate topics

That skirt the edge of new propriety

We climbed high in society

But conversation burned

We learned about technology

That rocked our world

Information in seconds

With ones and zeros that unfurled into lives

DNA becomes simple and our race strives

For bigger



Rules down to the letter

Who has time to read the full news?

We just choose who needs to lose

And win

Politics become a joke

Our government goes up in smoke

And we stay glued to our screens

Their bright sheen pierces our eyes

And when we look up through the lies

We fantasize the world we were just in

When ones and zeros become slim and slimmer

Our minds become dim and dimmer

As we take a trimmer to our thoughts

Now tell me how conversation’s gone

I’ll try to tell you that it’s wrong

But that’s an opinion, never a fact

The fact is, we’re just on a different tract

Yet if I hear another phrase repeat

If I see another bleed before yell defeat

Or another cheat while the honest pays

My hours stretch into days

With all these pleasantries

Questioning frees the mind

But not the kind we hide behind

How’s your children?

How’s your wife?

Did you get a new cat?

How’s your life?

What happened to you five minutes ago?

Tell me the news I already know

Tell me about your hobbies that pass the time

I’ll tell you about my possessions proud to be mine

If I hear another word that sits flat

I’ll ask, “who wants to know that?”

I want to know why you wake up in the morning

What rain tastes like on your tongue

What songs make you dance

Or cry when they’re sung

What a child’s smile does to your face

How did you get your grace?

What is your favorite place to escape to

If you have any vices, if so, how few?


I can’t take another conversation that dulls my mind

I don’t want to feel behind

But ahead

Don’t make me dread listening to you

But I don’t know what to do

Tell me there’s another one too

Who feels like me

And wants to be free

From the mind-numbing placidity of normal life

I’ll take it in strife now

But expect me to snap soon


This a longer poem, because it encompasses the very beginning to the present of humanity and its interactions with each other. I enjoyed writing this piece, because it allowed me to reflect on the conversation I have with people closest to me. A recent frustration of mine involved observing how shallow most conversations seem. I start to abhor how people repeat themselves and each other, or how small talk can stretch for hours. There is a direct correlation with how fast our world moves and the depth of our social interactions, because I believe if we were to take all the schedules and electronics and deadlines away, we would be left with nothing but time to discuss and think.