When we were 17

I’m beginning to fear the absence of feeling

Because we had it all right, when we were

seventeen years old, we would love so hard

let our hearts be pierced, like our lips and nose,

our love poems,

in all different types of prose,

the symbology of a simple cut out heart

from leftover fabric of a school project,

we’d carry around, as if it were a part of us,

but chided and disregarded,

“how could you possibly know love,

you all just started,

you’re like puppies playing,

pretending you feel,

but I’m older and wiser and

you should know it’s not real,

just wait ‘till you’re both older,

and then you will know,

you’ll look back on this,

and thank me for telling you so.”

But now that I’m older, twenty nine now,

the farther away this concept blooms,

exists in the past,

love is a construct, a word for ignited delusions,

that seethe and seep deep

as a life intrusion,

I’ve felt absolutely nothing for a long time

I sit in my room and I wish I could cry,

something, anything,

I just want to feel,

I pine for the days,

When I believed it was real.

Nov. 10 2016

I need to get back into the writing game. I need the therapy. 


Not sure if this is a wake up call

or the beginnings of a new

existential crisis.

My creative body has been left

for dead, while surviving

School, becomes merely tolerating

life itself.

Knots in my back have built

up to mountains.


She hums what the world needs now—

is love sweet love in the mornings.

I think its her way of coping, her way

of putting love out there, into the air.

She’s my outlet to the future, to understand

that I might still be the scared, sad, creature

I am now, in ten years time.


Computer screens, phone screens,

anxiously waiting for social texts,

my hands always occupied, my mind

always in a box, the passing of time,

the loss of moments.

Just the thought of going camping

could make me cry.


What if I regret spending the last of my

twenties in school?

What if I should buy that electric VW

and not go gentle into that good night?

Is going through the motions as

wasteful as suicide?

Hours in the Night

Hours in the Night

When the sheets are no longer a pleasure to lie in,

The warmth bred them musty and stale

You’re body is a vessel of mind dominating body

Thoughts layer, like paint, muddling it to

Incoherent levels of murky pitches.

A time to let feelings, steam out of your pores,

To lie in the filth of your complex mind.

When you start to identify stronger with

Elliot Smith’s croons and weepy tones

Than the happy days gone by.

Lit a candle to give your thoughts some light,

But don’t let it shine too bright,

Introspection doesn’t happen on a sunny day.

It’s just a matter of some sleep,

To evade this weary haze.