Time runs screaming
The moon, the only company I can stand
You think I’m downward leaning
Well, maybe I am

I feel every passing judgement
And I can give no blame
No one is responsible
So I stay alone with just my shame


I think an Amazonian ate my face
It’s not in its usual place
And now I have some extras
But I rather liked the one

But wait — it’s not so dire!
I just Kindled the wrong Fire
And now I have my face again
So back we go to fun!


Oh yes, I can see those confused looks and slack jaws. I was thinking on explaining… But you know what? I’m feeling sadistic. ☺

Slamming Doors

It’s better than it was before:
Laughter drifts through open doors;
So why does my chest tighten,
And my heart so quickly frighten,
At every hint of sounds like slamming doors?

Is it my unpainted fears
On the wall, downstairs?
Or the memory of a child,
Imagination running wild,
Listening to the yelling coming from upstairs?

Is it a weakness that is beautiful?
Or a strength to shield my weary soul?
Or a laughter in my mind,
That says to treat in kind,
And insists that in the end, no one’s really saveable?

Or maybe it’s the path I choose
At the crossroads of lose-lose;
And maybe if I try enough
At the game of never giving up,
I’ll find that there’s a prize that even on that road, I cannot lose.

The #1 Most Inconvenient Thing In the World

Shall I call down Death from on his throne,
An abdication to declare?
For his lordship over worst of woes
Has a challenger!
Often it’s been whispered
That there’s a thing that’s worse than Death;
And it’s this very thing that’s snickered
As I’ve cursed under my breath!
It’s a nuisance I can scarce compare…
(Do tell if you’ve a metaphor to lend!)
And I call myself a poetry connoisseur —
But no, meter is not my friend!


Sorry for being absent these last few days. Had some things on my mind… Still do. But let’s see if we can work poetry into it, eh? Just don’t expect perfect meter. I’ve never been able to fully wrap my mind around that…


I wrote a dozen poems
Off the top of my head;
Wrote them, wondering
If I was better off dead.
Because I fight with my brother;
I fight with my mom.
Sometimes I fight with my sister
When she goes on and on.
So I wrote a dozen poems
Just to clear out my mind:
They were pretty good,
And of the earnesty kind.
I would have shared them with you,
But I was out walking,
And by the time I came in,
Every one I’d forgotten!


I can’t breathe sometimes…
And sometimes I think there’s something really wrong with me;
But then I realize, I’m an idiot, and that it wouldn’t matter anyway.

I’m suffocating in these times:
Where we bicker, because, why wouldn’t we?
We only ever speak when we’ve nothing to say.

I’m sick of living out these lies,
Where the punchline of our every joke is that we’re angry,
And threats and fears are always termed as play.

I can’t even breathe sometimes…
But then, nobody ever seems to see,
So I guess that this is something that will simply go away.