Nothing means anything if you’re hungry

Sometimes I want you to be my home
But then you’ll never be your own
That’s our nature, and it’s inevitable
We like to conquer and quarrel

I want to be a mountain
But I’m afraid of heights
I want to be the night
But the darkness isn’t bright
I want to be a lion
But too scared to fight

I want you to be my home
But most of the time you already are
You’re a home that I could have no more
But I might not be your home in return
And I think that’s not a fair deal anymore

I want to be a lion
I want to be a mountain
I want to be a mountain lion
I want to laugh at that statement
I want to leave my self all alone
I want to walk away from everyone
I want to make bread, not drink wine
I want to be the best friend you’ll ever have
I want to be anyone else but myself
I want the world to crumble down on itself
I want the sun to explode and make us disappear

I want some food
Because I’m hungry
But I don’t make bread
And I’m out of breath
I don’t make bread by talking
And I didn’t make my bed this morning
And in the light of all these things I want
Nothing means anything if you’re hungry


Home is far away

Home is far away
More than a day’s worth of travel
More than what my feet could handle

Home is far away
But it’s closer than tears
But sometimes it disappears

Home is far away
Tucked into a blanket
On a shelf full of trinkets

Home is far away
But it comes by every Friday
And there’s no more Faraday

Home is far away
Like when we wasted those minutes
That we promised not to take for granted

Home is far away
It’s far away every day
It’s far away and it never stays


Senseless rambling

A myriad of phrases

Flowing from my mouth

Into your eyelashes

That falls on my shoulders

That stream down my arms

And onto my hand

That likes to make fists

That bangs on my temples

That hurts my big head

That is plagued with ramble


October’s lips has the scent of [love]
and [it] poisons her weakish lungs
that she empties out before dawn

when she gets up and yawns

if and only if she wakes up

and if she does, she ought to

but only if she wakes up

And her lips are soft, lips so tender
what am I to do but (ugh) surrender?

And her lips taste sweet, sweeter
than any sugary toaster treat
than any lemonysnicket tweet
than any rainstorms in autumn
than any unfortunate conundrum

(continues to rhyme, until however long you want)

and her lips are hers, hers only
Her lips are too sweet, too sweet,
too sweet to remember, but

Oh Lord!

how does one even think
of forgetting them?

(insert any sort of prayer here, or don’t)


I don’t know anymore

Nobody spends time with someone who sits around in his room all day with too much things on his mind, and too much garbage spread all around him. Nobody spends time with me. Probably there’s too much trash inside of my mind too. No one wants to spend time with me. No one does, and no one will. That’s what those two voices inside of my head always say.

They’ve been inside of my head since god knows when. Two voices that sound familiar, sometimes they’re warm and at other times, cold. They’re both unstable.

Their warmth comes in the form of diverting me from productivity. It’ll be too much, they said. It’s going to take too much time, too much effort. It’ll be better to just give up before you even start, they said. That’s what warmth is to them. Or maybe that’s the part of their being that isn’t cold. I don’t know.

They could be cold too, very cold. They’ll shit on me for getting up from bed too early to do anything. They’d rather have me roll around on the floor, on all of the filth that I’ve amassed since forever, than have me stand up to wash my face. They’d make my muscles tense up whenever I take morning walks, they’d make my head hurt if I try to smile. But I don’t really feel tormented. I’m used to it already.

Most of the time they don’t show themselves to me, but I think they look like me. I think they have the same eyes as me. And eyes are important, they’re the windows to one’s self. But I don’t know what I’d see if I peered into theirs. I know that they have my eyes, and my ears, and my mouth too, but I think they don’t see the cracked, moldy walls of my room, I don’t think they could hear the two of them screaming at each other every time I try close my eyes, and I definitely don’t think they utter the same prayers that I do every time their screams start to make me trembling all over my body. I think they don’t look like me, maybe we’re not alike after all.

And they say I think too much, but I think it’s not that I think too much, I just have to think more than most people when two fucked up things are screaming out evil things in unison. I don’t know what to do about it, yes, but I’m going to let myself get used to all the screaming first. Maybe it’s silent from the outside, but in here it’s the only thing I could hear. And maybe it’s not them that’s fucked up, it’s me.

                It’s lonely here, but this is all I need. A constant, silent bickering between two formless entities inside of me.

Thank you for holding on

Oh Love,

I could not sleep at night lately, and sleeplessness is ordinary.
And mine eyes are blurred by such exhaustion: blinded, slowly.
But you are my beacon of hope, and hope is more than scarce to me.
And it’s nothing else but scars I see, a pattern that decorates my body.
The pain that I feel, so plenty, it fades away when you come close to me.
And when mine eyes and yours finally meet; two souls leaving their bodies.
Intertwined by fate and neglected by time. Far too much pain, yet we never cry.
And what is it that could stop our plight? For the heavens is the very thing we deny.
And even though how hard we try, we could not, would not, accept that time still flies.
But what is more to life then to lie and wait? For everything goes away, and that’s okay.

Oh Love,

I could not sleep at night, without wishing that you’re here by my side.
Two very small blots of Chinese ink, travelling at the speed of dark light.
You come forward with no promises, nothing else matters and that’s alright.
Each and every kiss is an heirloom we pass down to every blacks that has life.
And our nights are far more lonely than what it used to be. It’s nothing to me.
You and me, we were never here and we would never hear the screams of our fears.
We would love, and loving is too short. So if we would love: it’s either that or mort.
And our stories are not at all short, we build them up just to see them get destroyed.
But without love, joyful hatred appears. And that too would one day cease to appear.
So what is it that we hold on so tight too? What else is there, for us, to even hold dear?
It’s nothing more than our complete and utter failure in comprehending all the lost tears.

We have no where else to turn.
And we would, probably, never learn.

The Sky

We watched the sky
and the sky was plain
neither of us complained
We watched the sky
covered in clouds, birds flying
pondering about death in the morning

What would become of us?
I don’t know, nor do I even care
and, for you and me, this life isn’t fair