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I'm an undercover agent.

Write free:
Xavier N.

Talk to me on Discord!: or blue#8398
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Message from Writer

Enjoy reading my stuff. Or don't. I write because I enjoy it. I don't write for other people.

Published Work


my life is a joke and i've accepted the fact that it will exist only as a child's hourglass, lasting as the smallest possible increment in the lifespan of the universe, itself. sixty seconds, if not less. lesser, lesser, so minute and insignificant that i am the size of a singular atom of oxygen, but even then, oxygen has more of a use than i do as a human being. no one needs me to survive, and thus i live only for the fulfillment of my brain's meager pleasures that matter to no one but my insignificant self.
smile, you say? what use does a smile have for me other than the release of chemicals that give me some sense of fake happiness? a temporary release of the weight that i have forced upon my shoulders and mine alone, not for anyone else to and grab with their grimy, germ-covered paws? help, you say? i don't need help. i'll...


blue is the bruises on your arms and legs
that slowly fade to yellow, then disappear.

blue is the color of the sky, with smatters
of clouds and a gradient of orange, red, and
gold, shining brilliantly as to compliment the
world in a silent support of its beauty.

blue is the color of the ocean, deep and light
and everything all at once, yet nothing at all.

blue is the color of your veins, your brain's 
roots in the dirt of your body, a tree growing
and living and breathing, human as human can be.

blue is the color of solemn love, missing as it
floats endlessly in the air, trying to find a
way back, hopelessly following red strings tied
to pinkie fingers, a maze seeminly changed in
the blink of an eye, lost to those who try and
fail at the game of love and life, doomed to
lose, no matter what cards they have to play.

red ribbons and spider webs

an endless ocean of molten
gold, burning my body from
the outside-in, a gouged mind
pulling and pushing, a tug of 
war game with the guilt-ridden
king midas, drowning in the 
riches of his loss, struck by the
realization that his life and love
destroyed by the hands of his 
own, connected to wrists and 
arms, shoulders and a skeleton
built as all others of his kind, 
but a path paved from cracked,
ancient bricks, further stained 
by gunpowder and touched with
the blood of lives tied by powers
far beyond their control, stories
built, just to be struck by a
quick end, with the snipping of
their all too short ribbon by
the scissors of the fates, an eye
shared between three spiders
weaving the fate of human
destiny, predestined to forever
fall into a pit of bottomless,

in a world of sea glass and greenhouse gases, your star still shines

in an ocean of life, you wash away
 the sand of pain, and in a balance, 
you bring it back, salty toffee arms 
holding me close in the past, present
and future, (my dear, haven’t i told 
you, floating in molasses and honey,
how i love you so, to the furthest stars
in the galaxy, milky way waterfalls
that twinkle and sparkle in those)
orbs of night sky kindness, holding
me, floating on memory foam and
cotton candy fluff, wispy clouds
strong but gentle, and (my love,) 
you are everything i could’ve ever 
asked for

Lunar Phrases

mother moon

love, take my hand and show me
the world in your eyes, cover mine
hide me from the monsters, mauled
skin, yellow, slitted eyes and shark
teeth, leathery skin, hiding in the 
shadows to dig their metal claws into 
my soft skin, (muscle, sinew, bone,) 
blood peeking out of gouges in my 
small arms, red mixing with the 
blue night air, cold trespassing, 
slow, calculated steps, light and 
barely heard, on the balls of his
feet, he creeps into my mind and
freezes my thoughts over, filling
my eyes with (darkness, if not for
a moment, then) a beautiful glitter
sky, white moon splattered with 
gray speckles, hands reaching out
to take me into her warm embrace,
healing my scars, pale arms marked
with (too much) care, a gentle smile
with eyes that hide the pain of her
thousands (millions, billions) of 
children, the gravity of her (painful)
unconditional love for those she has
adopted into her large family, holding ...


a world goes wrong in the span
of a singular moment too quick
to grab, water slipping through
the cracks of your sun-dried 
fingers, and the world slows as
you watch (slowly, but) surely
the drops that would’ve saved 
you, (or would they have, in 
the end?) slowly moving out
of your reach, fingers cracking
under the pressure of failure and
what else is there to do aside 
from moving in slow motion
following the droplets with 
earth-cracked fingers, and you
can’t help but realize that your
face feels the water droplets
from a heaven above, all-seeing
blinking away tears from the 
eyes of a cowering, broken
being, angel wings dyed black
at the tips, a forced darkness
in the lightness of their life
destroyed by the hands and 
mouths of others, writhing
and dripping poison dipped
in the darkest of nights to 
tear apart from the smallest
of cracks, resiliency growing
from tears of the pained and 
hurt, weeds...

tie a rope (revised)

father up above, in a tower
so high, (please) tell me as
i suffer, hands clasped together
words flowing from cracked 
lips, a mist surrounding me in
a barrier of false protection
(lord above,) why am i one
of the fallen, broken angels
hand in hand with the likes
of lucifer, dancing around 
a throne of melted bones and
shattered, glass memories
(thorns braided and wrapped
around my calloused feet,
guiding me in this ballroom
dance with the devil, an
impish grin as he leads me
further down the path of the
broken, bloody, and beaten)
my soul slips as it flows
effortlessly to join the other
battered and bludgeoned souls
wills shackled, skeleton fingers
accesorized anklets to fit as
portable jail cells, showing all
(lover, where have you gone)
the mistakes that you’ve made
(lover, make me whole again
let me feel your perfect frame,
your puzzle piece body fitting
to mine, protecting me from
ice cold harm, sharp...


I’m the apologies spoken when they didn’t deserve it. I’m the stuttered words and trailed off sentences because no one cared to listen. I’m the closed mouth in a sea of words, too afraid to speak over the storm of sound. I’m the butter knives in your stomach in the morning when you wake up to go to school or work. When you have an important day ahead of you. I’m the thoughts that keep you up for hours. I’m the scenes that play out in your head that make you sick to your stomach. I’m the stitches over your lips when you want to speak but can’t. I’m the emotions that bubble up in your stomach that always get pushed back down. I’m the geyser that burns your throat and seeps out of your eyes when those emotions are tired of being suppressed. I’m the tightrope you stand on when you’re trying to talk about something serious. I’m the...

why do we write?

I've asked myself that question a lot as of recently.

"Why do you write?"

"What's the point?"

"Where do you think you're going to go with this?"

After all, for every story I've written— every poetry piece, every essay— everything I write, a part of my mind goes with those stories. Those characters, those words.

I guess you could say a brain cell goes with each of my stories.

That was me, trying to lighten the situation before I go on with what I'm going to tell you.

Imagine this:

You're a kid who loves to write. It may not be good writing— not on the level of Stephen King, or JK Rowling, no. But the shine in your eyes, the determination— you'll get there. And you'll be the best writer that there's ever been.

That is your dream. As a child, at least.

And then you grow up. And, as a teenager, your confidence crumbles like a cookie....

the mask(s) of snakeskin and ballads

One, two, three.

It’s like a dance.

One, two, three.

An elaborate ploy to wrap them around your fingers.

One, two, three.

And, God, does it work.

You smile, polite and proper. You curtsy, delicately place your hand in theirs, and the dance begins. They lead, and you follow with ease, first playing to their tune. No mistakes, no missteps, or the dance is unsuccessful. While you dance around the ballroom, you talk, and laugh, and murmur in their ear.

Everything you do is planned.

Planned to perfection.

You thank them for the dance, still giggling with your “partner.”

Could you be any more fake, dancer?

The second song begins, and it's at a faster pace.

It’s your style.

You tap their shoulder, smile, and they understand.

You sink your fangs in when they don’t realize it.

You take the lead.

And the puppet’s strings are yours.

After that, you toss them aside.
And it’s not like they care much. ...

the wonders of a societal downfall

We’ve all read a dystopian novel. Or an attempted utopia-turned-dystopia. Fahrenheit 451, The Giver, 1984. Those are the classics, aren’t they? We’ve either heard of them or read the pages ourselves. Or maybe you read a summary of them.

​Have you ever thought about how there are parts of Earth that are perfect examples of dystopias? Or parts of history that more or less depict an attempted utopia that didn’t work out?

Not like they ever do work out.

I don’t think I’ve ever read a story where there's a utopia with a happy ending. A story where nothing goes wrong and the protagonist lives a long, happy life with no strife. Where they don’t fight for what they think is right.

There’s no antagonist in a utopia. Everyone is equal.

There’s no protagonist in a utopia. Everyone is equal.

There is no such thing as a perfect world — only imperfect.

Perfect was just a word made up...

the masochistic toleration of human sin

***For parts of this to make sense, please first read why do we write?


When one usually thinks of sin, it’s the seven deadly sins that first come to mind.

Lust. Lechery. Luxuria. Sexuality. Unbridled sexual desire, or even desire for power, money. But mostly sex.

Gluttony. Gula. Gluttire. Wasteful overindulgence. The five ways to commit Gluttony (Thank you, Thomas Aquinas) are as such:

Laute. Eating too expensively.
Studiose. Eating too daintily.
Nimis. Overeating.
Praepropere. Eating too soon.
Ardenter. Eating too eagerly.

Greed. Avaritia. Avarice. Cupidity. Similar to Lust and Gluttony, it’s a sin of desire. Of more. More power, more money, more, more, more.

Sloth. Tristitia. Lack of feeling. Laziness.

Wrath. Ira. Uncontrolled feelings of anger. Rage. Hatred. Vengeance.

Envy. Invidia.Another insatiable desire, like Greed and Lust. One is jealous of another because of their possessions. Whether that be their personality traits, physical traits, or status. Maybe for more secretive...

M. Redding (rewrite)

From Unknown Number: Hello, Margarette! This is Shinji Hithop from work, and I was wondering if you’d like to hang out this coming Saturday? I heard that there was a movie that you wanted to see at work, and I’m interested in seeing it, too. Let me know if you’d like to see it together.
To Unknown Number: How the hell did you get my number?

“Who’s that, another poor, desperate man trying to get with you again? From work, no less,” Abel whistled, looking over my shoulder. He jokingly cried out when I moved to elbow him in the stomach, but he’d dodged it with ease. “Hey! A growing boy like me is curious about the life of a grown woman like you. Also, I know you don’t mind me reading those stupid text messages.”
“Yes, well, a growing boy like you also needs to have respect for other people’s boundaries,” I retorted, waving my hand in...