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I come on here like. Once a month.
Post two things.
Then leave again.

Message from Writer


Published Work

mourning doves

give me a sign god,
give me a single reason why i should try god,
when the unending lies and cries for a pain
that leads only to the pleasing release of a woman accused
sadness diffused, trust abused, body abused
an artwork burned, ashes who yearned for the heavens
to only be chained and restrained, white words stained by the blasphemy of man.

equality is a word clear as mud - thick as a cloud and sweet as blood
freedom is free like the planets revolving around the sun
ellipses in ellipses in ellipses we go
merry go 'round till the witches fall down
hand-in-hand with the woman they love, pain unsheathed in a bouquet of 
mourning doves

let's educate ourselves on: the ocean

hey so people seemed to like my corvid thanatology piece and i'm currently running on four hours of sleep so let's have some fun and educate you fools on something that we (humans, the people who inhabit earth) barely know jack about, even though we're literally living with it on the planet with us. like that weird roommate that we really like and can be super interesting, but sometimes they're just... so weird. so they scare us sometimes.
the ocean.
in which we have only discovered approximately 5 percent of it.
let that sink in.
for the people who can't do math, there's still ninety-five percent of that ocean left that we don't know jack about, really. well, to be more specific, let me just quote an article really quick (for emphasis, this beauty is from 2016, so if it's outdated forgive me but i honestly don't care):
"only five percent of the seafloor has been topographically imaged, which...

when i was younger,

i had a hunger for the deep
a thirst only quenched by lack of sleep
filling my head until it burst
at the twenty-first hour, 
cursed with unrehearsed plans, thoughts, words
spill until my lungs fill with toxic waste
coming from the rubber lungs made by my 
father, he told me
no matter what i did my words would be
silenced, crucifixion, my existence unholy
never do anything worthwhile until i'm thirty
my dreams are fiction, my mind a restriction
the world is a rope and i tie the knot
thought they oughta taught the boys and girls to tie their shoes
but not how to help when a brother gets shot
with a wave of depression, empty emotion
the world's in slow motion, what's all the commotion
when nothing you say is nothing you feel
and nothing you feel is anything real
each breath is swallowing steel and 
every meal has no appeal, and they wonder
why i deal...

One Home

we the children and our mother's one body

we the children of mother earth
hold her hand as we force the
smoke down her lungs, watching
(carbon dioxide, chlorofluorocarbons,
methane, ozone, nitrous oxide)
as she attempts at holding her breath.

she doesn't want to breathe, but
our sweet mother holds her tongue
and takes all the pain we lash 
at her, the whip of men on her
conscience every waking second.

bless her soul, the mother who
never sleeps, to care for her
feeble-minded, thick-headed
children who he holds near and
dear to her heart, their souls
joining her in the dance of 
leaves of grass, watching her from
their seats in heaven or their
chains in hell, always watching
as their mother strives forward.

her blood is clogged with 
microplastics, her lungs full
of greenhouse gases, eyes
clouded with the chemical
fog, pores clogged from
landfills, but there is only
so much that a mother can
take from her spoiled children.

so when the volcanoes erupt,

a few seconds of chopin's etude op. 25 no. 11

if i tell you to run faster, go slower.
if i tell you to cry, smile at me and laugh.
if i tell you to scream, wallow in silence.
if i tell you to ignore me, bathe me in your warm, molasses eyes and soft arms and let me drown into your body.
if i tell you to abandon me, never leave my side.
if i tell you to hate me,

a fireplace cold
a lock with no key
a path with no end
tell me, baby, 

love me with every breath you breathe,

the marriage between two gods never lasts,
but we can do them one better

inhale me and exhale me, and never let go,

and at least be honest when we start hating each other.

even when we're both holding knives at each other's backs.

because who needs honesty 
when you have years of -

hold me, darling, as the 
sirens call for the men
(gullible, sweet...

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....

to the english teacher that could've been my best friend (had we been closer in age)

thank you.

thank you for giving me that glittery pumpkin sticker that used to be on your school-issued laptop, but you took it off during musical practice (for reasons still unknown to me), then gently (albeit awkwardly) handed it to me with an easy smile on your face. 

("do you want me to throw this away?"

"no. i want you to cherish it dearly."

i laughed while putting it in my pocket, muttering "i'll put it on my lanyard."

your laughter in that moment made me happy, so i smiled as well. my day felt better after musical practice because you know me well enough to fit your jokes into my abstract sense of humor, and your musical references and singing couldn't help but make me smile, regardless of how awful i felt.

i still have the rolled-up foam sticker sitting on my desk.)

thank you for letting me borrow your watermelon-colored stress ball when i needed it. when i...

corvid thanatology (and other animals that mourn death)

noun, ornithology
a bird of the crow family ( Corvidae ); a crow.

the scientific study of death and the practices associated with it, including the study of the needs of the terminally ill and their families.

the crow family includes crows, ravens, rooks, jackdaws, jays, magpies, treepies, choughs, and nutcrackers. 
are they all affected by the deaths of other corvids/other birds/mammals/animals? 
who knows. 
but they have funerals. sometimes.
imagine seeing a dead crow on the side of the road or in a field or wherever, and then a crow flies down and sees that it's dead. do they know this crow? is it someone that was in their flock, or just a random dead crow in a field that they'd never seen before? keep in mind that birds in the crow family are as intelligent as primates. uswe are primates. dr. kaeli swift is an avid wildlife researcher and corvid specialist, and she's...

talent (and the imperial highness of half-assery)

There's a foreign exchange student at my school who is quite an interesting character. His name is Philipp, and the only reason why I really know him is that he's an art student. He was quiet when he first came here - he kept to himself, and at one point he'd even had a panic attack. He didn't seem the type to be so anxious, but I guess I can't say that since a lot of people can't look like they have anxiety.

He loves art, but he's a perfectionist. He loves the environment and cares about it so much that he cried out of frustration because of how little people care about recycling and littering. Back in Germany, he was a part of a group that breakdanced, and he also did lots of graffiti, since it's legal in Germany to do such a thing. He listens to German rap music, and he's awkward and gets flustered when people compliment...

always and forever #blackandwhite

Echo tried to love Narcissus more than he loved himself.

Little did she know that she was attempting the impossible.

I tried to love someone more than they hated themselves.

Little did I know that I was attempting the impossible as well.


“How do you teach someone to love themselves?” I asked the cloudy sky, my hands splayed over my stomach, fiddling with the strings of my white hoodie with blue sleeves, rolling the plastic tips back and forth between my fingertips. “How do you teach yourself to love who you are after you were raised with an oblivious amount of hatred surrounding you?”

Self-love (n): Regard for one’s own well-being and happiness  (chiefly considered as a desirable rather than narcissistic characteristic).

Self-hatred (n): Intense dislike of oneself.

Maybe it doesn’t seem impossible from where you’re standing. If you already love yourself, it’s a hop, skip, and a jump onto Self-Love Lane, and you’re where you need to...

the treemaster's treat #experience

follow me, the treemaster murmurs, 
voice smooth like the rivers that flow
underneath the roots of the redwoods,
and you'll find a treat greater than any
of those that your grandmother could 
bake for you with the gift of the flamemaster.

careful of the roots, the treemaster warns,
my children long for the touch of your people,
but their gentle touches have left them to
break your brittle bones as they once did
the branches and beginnings of my saplings.

the trees seem to follow me in wonder
as i delve deeper into the unknown forest
that the village chiefs warned me not to
venture into. your adventurous spirit
will cave if you follow that monster
into the maze of death created by the hands
of the treemaster.

his eyes as cold as the winter, breath that
freezes over the warmest of waters, and a touch
that burns you from the inside out, and as you
beg for forgiveness for the...

the peculiar case of lily harthollow #thingsihate

"You know, take a few steps to the left and stand right behind that tree, and I might hate you a little less," Lily smiled at Jay, hoping that the sarcasm traveled, regardless of her sweet voice. "And that pretty face of yours could use a broken nose and a few bruises, don't you think?"

"Let's just try to get along with each other for this field trip, Lily," Jay sighed, picking up a beer glass with her tan, gloved hand. Oh, how dainty you are, Miss Grayland! Picking up that glass with the most slender, gentle fingers! May you lift your pinky as you work, princess? "I understand that you don't like me - and I'll apologize again if I've done anything to offend you - but let's put bitterness aside so we can just clean the park without bickering."

Such a pacifist. "Have you ever spoken up for yourself before?" Lily scoffed, grabbing a wet wad of paper...

nebupirof #raincontest

It’s safe to assume that I’m not right in the head. Sometimes my mind goes fuzzy and I stop thinking, whether it be in the middle of a conversation or doing homework or just breathing and living, being the only self of me that I can be: myself. My friends - they get it. Sometimes, the choo-choo of my conscious falls off the rails and into the ocean, lost with the other locomotives that I really need to take better care of. And then the only time that I remember what I was about to say is when Lakitu picks up those trains and I get back on track.
It doesn’t happen often. 
But I get sidetracked and move from one thing to the other and wow, what’s that over there? And then people look at me weird and I feel embarassed, because people have blatantly told me before that my inability to stay still and stay...

A Bar Story - World Building

The familiar chimes of the bar welcomed me in, going from the humid, claustrophobic air from outside to the gentle cold of the dingy, around-the-corner spot that I always found myself heading to after work. Those red seats that you’d find at a diner, and the polished wooden countertop that was kept so clean that you could practically see your reflection on it. Maroon walls with heavily tinted windows, shelves lined with empty, antique liquor bottles, and a vintage jukebox was playing electric tunes.
“Welcome to Tilo’s - Oh, hi, honey! Work ended a little late, didn’t it?” A chipper, sweet voice called, and I cocked my head. “I can hear the gears turning from here, you know. We have cameras hooked up in this bar, silly! Put two and two together - me being an Arintel, and all - and you conclude that my brain waves are wirelessly connected to the security system!”
“How would I come to that...

Snippet of a Hero's Story

“You know what I think, Hero?” The Villain begins, voice drenched with sarcasm and exhaustion. “I think that those silly men and women upstairs need to stop sending you to do their dirty work. Wouldn’t you agree?” 

The Hero takes a moment to process what was just said, blinking while the gears in her head catch up. “What—?”

“When was the last time you’ve had a break from all this villain hunting, hm?”


“Hell, when was the last time you’ve ever gotten a genuine ‘thank you’ from the gods and goddesses who hired you? I’ll bet it’s been a while, right?” A sigh, and the Villain swirls the glass in her hands, a dark, blood-red liquid. Before continuing, she drains it in a single tip of her glass, before placing it on the table next to her. “You aren’t the first one who’s tried to turn me back from my dastardly ways, and nor will you be the last....


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.

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


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...

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 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...