a succession of the soul

i saw flowers in his eyes—
drowning in the pain of
whispered from pale lips cracked
like the dry malevolence of their hearts

a face stained red with tears
and flames rushing to the skin,
he would not bleed for them.

wildfires are good.
they burn dead brush once lush,
make room for life reborn

the soot in his irises settled,
tears washed away—
tears once taunted

i see flowers in his eyes—
dancing in a sunlit breath
no longer lackluster
like the dull transparency of their





internal bleeding

the writer escapes reality with art
of dreams in black and blue
bleeding fingers clawing at its imagination through
textiles of love

fabrications of hearts in heads
ties all that is genuine
to the bars of an unlocked cage
the writer cries
and screams
and breaks
and beats
and fights to
but only in its own twisted mind because

who would have known
that the writer’s own enemy was



i dream of the city            

























naiveté torn by stories

the child wails the Cries of a dreamer
existing in the nuances Of a broken world
with tears flooding in an Era of
popularity in Xenocide of the alien
love of Innocence born in paper of white and honey
the Sweet of picture books
have pages to Tear






sacrifice is
knight rides four squares
to protect the King

object of the
game of war
stay alive
but not at the expense of
the King


short prose

shoot the messenger

Some days, I like to think about the moment when I began to exist. There was no Tuesday afternoon during which we grew into our bodies––bodies too big, too small, too free. Freedom should come with age, they told us. They were hiding behind the facade of an unfathomable language that said, “Kids will be kids.” Innocuous words cast a shadow upon the toxic messages we learned in school, the ones that taught us to turn blind ears and deaf eyes to the truth. Deformities were to be ridiculed and the all-too-perfect beautiful boys and girls were to be celebrated for conforming to the cruel rules of a prejudiced society.

Her body was too tall––tall so that she pulled herself thin and brittle as rice paper and she could not ever be in her heart and her head at the same time.

His head was too big. Big so that there was not enough brain to fill it. They told him that he should never take a psychology class because the lectures about mental abnormality would trigger his depression. Little did they know. Little did they know that he was not depressed because of his psychological distress, but rather because of the ticking timeline that they had drawn for him.

What did we learn in school? My mother asks me every day. I do not have an answer, or at least one worth repeating. These lessons stunt our growth and scramble the already twisted labyrinths of our heads. Some days, I like to dream about the moment when I will begin to exist in the way that I truly wish to.