On a wretched night I am too aware of a heart pounding, a thousand hearts all surrounding mine, I am astounded by this lack of light, this pain of life, this black of night I know the Fury is rising slowly and I can’t control its progress and it’s an eerie thing to know we are all fighting battles we’ll lose because the lighting will always go out too soon - the candles they will blow out, the people will go, go off to find what this cursed life is all about and why it seems like everybody is lonely - but we only inhabit a limited world; we call ourselves Coney Island queens, tell the world we possess California dreams, international schemes for success and we’ll keep up the lie until we have to go out under the empty stars somewhere just to scream and admit that we cannot do this, whatever this may be, and furthermore we cannot do this alone, there are no dreams and hopes and our lives and loves are not for us to own, so now what?


”[…] I like too many things and get all confused and hung-up running from one falling star to another till I drop.

This is the night, what it does to you. I had nothing to offer anybody except my own confusion.”

- Jack Kerouac
On the Road


Bitten by a crab

Today I fell into a fitful slumber two different times and, well, I’m finding it hard to find my rhymes these days and it’s blinding to stand under the sun’s rays staring at blank lines and stumbling through my mind looking for faith in a deserted place where the ocean is kind but too far away so we settle for the waves instead, pulling shades down over our eyes, fooling our heads into believing that these raids against our lives are what’s best so we lay down to rest with too much ease and drift off to a distant land of make-believe peace and are resistant to the waking world until the waves break over our bodies and saves our hearts and souls, showing that art can arise from the deadest of coals. 


August 3, 2013 - Uncharted

Silverstein questioned where the Sidewalk ends
Frost advocated the road Not taken
The road is Life, no matter where it bends,
wrote Kerouac. And none were mistaken.
Sidewalks don’t end; they only ever pause,
too much traffic on the road less traveled
Battered suitcases line the road because
we lost our way as the road unraveled.
One day we reach the break at sidewalk’s edge
lose hope in the road overgrown with moss
and wonder why we ever took the pledge
to follow Kerouac, SIlverstein, and Frost.
         Because the roads are rough where they exist
         and where they don’t we must simply persist.


July 26, 2013 - Deadend

A few days ago, there was a request for “today”. As it is (clearly) no longer that day, I figured I would just put whatever day I answered it. So that would be the real today.

Listens to “It’s Been A While” by Staind
consumes Skittles out of a plastic jar
frozen expression of happiness feigned
fingertips forever tracing a scar.
Eyes constantly scanning the world outside
while hands scan items using a bar code
lets the box-cutter along her Self glide
blinks fast enough to make the dim lights strobe.
Artificial air freezes blood and time
and how does it feel to run out of both?
comes home exhausted, downs a glass of wine
maybe two or three. What’s a broken oath?
          Believes Paradise can never be found
          transcends this world, ends up in the ground.


May 6, 2013 - Game Play

He may have been right in questioning me
I fascinated like a shiny blade.
I promised him faith and security
But I was danger waiting for the raid.
Like a rabid animal, I fought it
Webs of explanation spun from my lips
Wary of my faults, he never bought it.
We played our games as gamblers handle chips.
When did the joy end and the ache begin?
The tighter his grasp, the further I fade.
He broke me once; I said never again
But we are a spinning record replayed.
          My passion flickers like dying embers
          How does a pulsing heart get dismembered?


May 12, 2013 - Wordless

I could fill endless pages with my words.
But why waste my time where is no purpose?
"Follow what you love, even when it hurts"?
I love, I write, I live, and it’s worthless.
I cry not tears but the jet black of ink
I own no life but what the pen grants me.
What once kept me afloat now makes me sink - 
I lie, face down, the way they left Gatsby.
There on the surface but devoid of breath
My back to the sky and its fading light.
I know the darkness of increasing depth
Despair extinguishes the will to fight.
          I will face the pain that is thrown at me
          ‘til I finish this book of poetry



Name a date between May 6, 2013 and the present day.

I might respond with a sonnet, if I don’t decide it’s too shitty for public viewing.



I always have the urge to start off with an apology - for not writing in so long, for writing aimlessly, for seemingly deceiving the world with my tireless claims that “I love writing so much I am so passionate about writing and literature it’s the one thing I love I would be nothing without it” because - let’s face it - if I loved writing, I would be, well, writing, right?

And trust me, I have been. (I guess I managed to sidestep a full-blown pathetic apology addressed to no one in particular and, at the same time, everyone, so that’s a definite improvement. The unprompted defense of my intentions and activities remains a work-in-progress, however.)

It would appear that I have shifted into a more private realm of writing, which I would have never foreshadowed. For a period of time, there was a healthy (as healthy as any of my habits can be) balance between publicly posted works and writings left in drafts and journals. Nearing the end of my first year of college, however, I fell fantastically in love with a journal made in India that I discovered while perusing the colorful shelves in a World Market and I believe this is when the shift began its early stages.

Embarrassing as it may be to admit, I immediately developed an overly attached commitment to this (then) blank book - almost a consuming covetousness not unlike that of a scorned-but-helplessly-in-love-and-perhaps-slightly-deranged female. It became my most loyal confidante in a time when I refused to trust anything kissed by the touch of life. I needed a silent, welcoming, and most importantly, nonjudgmental receptacle into which I could deposit all that I could never have acknowledged in their undeveloped, intangible forms.

May 4, 2013 was the day of my first entry into the koi fish-infested, semi-symmetrical, kaleidoscope covers.

And I haven’t resurfaced since.

More specifically, the act of sonnet-writing has gripped me like animated seaweed and dragged me into the depths of imagination. Writing sonnets has been embedded into the pattern of my daily life. I have latched wholeheartedly and helplessly on to this preposterous notion that writing a sonnet every day will somehow guide me through the maze that is my mind and reveal a long-fabled “light.”

Though not the full reason why I’ve ceased posting on here, definitely a sizable enough proportion to claim responsibility. I’m not quite sure how I feel about the way literary events in my life have transpired thus far, but the sonnet-writing has proved simultaneously therapeutic as well as dazzlingly confusing.

Perhaps I may post a few on here? (Ah, but this is the part where I suffer from the insecurities of an incompetent writer of sonnets. The dictations of iambic pentameter inspire in me the sudden and uncontrollable urge to tear out the parts of my esophagus that are apparently useless, because it feels as if I am literally choking over my own words. Needless to say, that particular rule is not often followed.)

So I guess the final conclusion would be that I am still in a state of weary confusion and hopeful foolishness, but then again, when have I ever not been? Nightly, I am hunched over this book, with the absence of day shrouding me in near shadow, bleeding out of my pen.



Dreams Against Humanity

she dreams of the purpose of man while lying next to a different one in bed and she sees visions in the form of dreams in her head and it is of yet another and it is not for her to decide because we all know passions come and go as they please and she never could gain control over the never-ceasing flow and this time, she thinks, maybe he was right in not trusting her outright

“Before my birth there was infinite time, and after my death, inexhaustible time. I never thought of it before: I’d been living luminously between two eternities of darkness.” My Name is Red
Orhan Pamuk
“But then they danced down the streets like dingledodies, and I shambled after as I’ve been doing all my life after people who interest me, because the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop and everybody goes “Awww!””

Hand print

On this night I gaze at faraway stars by myself because I’m searching for a light that I lost somewhere in the daze and I can’t help but see the fair features of your face in the sky and I have to wonder why it appears so clear and the thought of the pain we bring each other strains my chest and I feel the familiar burning sear of hurt and I know I can’t complain because I know you felt a similar pain but how can we heal each other when one of us can’t even restrain the other? I feel trapped in a cage, like a patient strapped-in after giving in to a long-silenced rage; I slapped him and hit the wall, he laid down and curled himself into a ball and as more of our faults unfurled I crawled away from him as best as I could, without walking away like I used to. We were no longer humans talking, having a real conversation with words -  we were just stuck in a state of permanent seething contemplation of hate and the meaning of love, one we could never voice because I fell victim to fear so severely that I never really gave him the choice; he was never good with words and I never gave him the chance. We exchanged feelings with a single glance but somewhere along this path, a vital interaction vanished and became forever lost in translation and left the both of us in indelible isolation. How could we have ever believed this to be infallible? I thought to feel relieved but I never really achieve that which I set out to seek - How come?



Nobody knows it but I’m a walking disease, my doctor tells me to own it but even she has to have known that people like me are more than just “ill at ease,” I’ve blown it pretty decisively this time around I don’t know how else to put it concisely but this time I’ve hit the ground and I look around and none of it is mine; none of it feels like a life I own, doesn’t feel like it belongs to me because I can no longer dance to the sound of my own heartbeat, my own rhyme; instead, I’m forced to believe that my body failed to be stronger, fell to defeat and left me close to dead with just enough breath to show me that there is no relief - I never meant to call this bluff, to test how close I wanted to get to death and become morose when inevitably I lost the bet; regrettably I am left entirely bereft of even the slimmest of hopes, although I steadily fight this previously concluded battle, the dimmest glimmer of light leaves me and I plead with the doctor, wade through the convoluted explanation and weed out the bullshit, seek a piece of hope to grasp on to, lest I go to the roof to find peace in the air, rasp out my pain and take one last leap of faith - of all the ways, I never knew I’d give in to this ache.

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