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?

Geist Zine

I wonder if I’ve ever unknowingly walked passed them,

Down the streets of Georgia or Hastings;

I think I would get star struck if I ever intentionally

Strolled by, or at the very least I’d confidently stiffen

My allure and act like I didn’t care, not even bothering

To turn my head, but relying on reflections in windows and

Peripheral vision to give me a taste of what I desperately wanted to

Immerse myself into.


Geist, the small literary magazine I had

Come to idealize and idolize — to associate with

Blissful breezes that carried fresh spring scents

From petals softer than bottoms fresh from the wombs

Of mothers, who practiced natal yoga and nourished

Themselves with organic produce, reared in urban farming



Art has a way of presenting perfection

In a world whose politics cannot agree on the

Definition. The steaming cup of coffee icon

Signals for all to meditate in the crafted collection

of words who’s mental imagery  is retrospective

of every moment in time before this second now.


Because as I keel into the mind of each

Swollen brained author, I feel a beating heart

that is not my own, with descriptors so rich,

they become indistinguishable from my own

Memories, so much so that it is impossible not

to take note of my own surroundings, in order

to repay the favour of a fervent rendition–And

thus a life lived relished in the small things where

Cups of dark chocolate coffee offer indispensable pleasure

in mornings, mid day, to post-dinner, accompanied with

stories of spirit, wit, intellect and mind.





When it all catches up with you,

Withered looks of disappointment along with

Assumptions made on behalf

of your character.


The Royal Slut in porn

Star action

Slept with her clothes on,

The regular cold reaction.


Real man have no feeling,

They’re like a fish;

But both when hit — bleeding,

Still no one clarifies it.


Livers working the night shift

Leaves her listless on the couch

A wasted life

Dreams of funerals come unbeknownst.


He had to go out and do

What he thinks she did

When we try to balance out the queue

We only further de-scale it.

You’re not mine

The sound the machine makes

When all is  lost.

The hardline drone when the

Heart seizes to start it’s next


The glass that screams out as it

Hits the floor, crawling, pointed

Fingers, desperate to grasp for

The warmth of your hand.

And I don’t know if these tears

Climax for me or for you; yet just

As well, my stomach dips as low

As peat bogs go, and I’ll withstand the

Eerie chill that solitude grows. It’s good

We own no guns, cuz with passion

No one ever really knows.

Woman. Passive.

Woman. Passive.

Seem to hide away

The crumbs will stay on the counter

When they are away.

She’s over-moved

The feelings cough off


She’s cracked her heart up

Her yolks are bleeding

Into the next day.

He always gets his way.

The kitchens change, along with apartment names.

Winning aways stays the same

She’s inferior. Keeps comparing her beating essence

To his locked femininity.

Fingers tremble, there is no mending

When she self-ignores.

Is it better to breathe and leave

Yourself fallow this fall?

Uncomfortably they lay

In private rooms, where she

Convinces herself its gonna be okay.

It’s been old news, because,

Mythologies stay the same.

She needs a different seed

Just to see another way.

She’ll close the blinds, no one can

Read her mind, she’ll

Seem to hide away.




It followed you through seed and seed

Of gestation of mother to daughter,

Black magic,

The crows had planted it in wombs

Where like weeds, it grows merciless to

Generations like seasons.



A language learnt only to be put before aloof souls,

Black Plague,

Where upon reaching town

Skeletons sit in pews, praying

The lost lover, at last found.



Those who escaped the plague alive,

Only to carry around a worse demise


Ailed hearts break strands of capillaries

The curse is all that remains yours,

It pulses pain through and through veins,

But you wont let it go; no, not this time,

This heart ache is all that is mine.

The curse shows up in me, each life, each time.

I Should Really Blame Myself

The day we are born

Freedom is lost, in

Enclosed white asylum walls.

Is it good business, breeding babies?

And I wonder why it is,

That when my heart breaks;

When I no longer feel beautiful is

When the fragility of love is most evident?

Just when you think it is something


When we find out it is not,

Seek solace in  buying things,

(Because people are never truly bought)

Materials to make me new again.

Desirable. Loveable. And yes, Beautiful.

When the cold hard things can no longer

comfort me,

I’ll let my mind boil my heart

In the broken cavity of ribs,

Muscles, tissues, the breathing

Carcass, or so how it seems,

In the festering filth that breeds

Bad thoughts like fleas.

I’ll sit in my room, the throne of ‘false needs’

And wonder why I can’t seem to have anything.

Inevitability of Loss

Inevitability of Loss

Thoughts transpire to him

His body, unique to it’s own,

Olive skin, a voice to soothe lions.

Irreversal sensuosity,

He left kisses like tattoos,

Never to wash off.


I am Lady Macbeth,

Can’t undo what is done.

I’ll keep this blood ’till it crusts.

And I prematurely despair,

As I enrapture the beauty of a bird

Fluttering, happily with the mysterious energy

Gifted to us at birth,

Oblivious to it’s eventual,

Immanent, inescapable expiration.

A Death before my Own,

And then he flies away

Leaving me to wonder

If love, like life, is always fleeting.

The losses we consume,

And in turn consume us.

A heart, devoured, never to resume.



Soft organs and autumn voices

Breathe ever so gently, a

Wind that touches; brisk kisses

Make us lust after harmonious

Strings, vibrating; that which we

Cannot see, the negative space

Curving around our carbon and mass,

Our star dust eyes that

Blossom in morning dew light.

Because when you get near me

I burn from that energy, it’s

Red and reluctantly emanating.