Bits of age old places; barbed wire fences in smiling braces.

Furrowed brows the farm-rows before the crops,

Teary eyes the waterfalls and then the sparse rain drops.


Hearts shudder and pound violently out of control.

Sparse flaws on the skin; soft little knolls,

Moon craters, crevices and sun-spot moles.

Folding ocean surface ripples, delicate creases and wrinkles.

Bright eyes, starry skies, glittery make up and colorful dyes,

Algae blooms’ impending doom and faint hair highlights – plant-derived.

Summer breezes sighs of delight, warm breathes and sun-bleached sights.


Panicked shaking, tsunami waves and crippling fright.

Morning dew on green grass blades, beads of sweat on blushing faces,

Bird songs echoing in the day, melodies repeated on radio stations.

Your smile: so eternal, eroded into the mountainous region.


My heart still tremors. Your smile remains after all of the seasons.

Things with Wings


These trumpeting geese wake me every day. Their deep voices carry in the foggy morning rain.

I ponder upon how it is that many things with wings found light ligaments in place of their feet:

A bat is just a rat that finally took flight to escape the plight of the destitute streets.

A caterpillar would be a worm, but at some point it learned that beauty could be found underground, or buried deep in a cocoon.

With silk woven without a loom the worm still weaves the softest cloth. So why do we think the butterfly is so much more beautiful than the moth?

Its dusty wings are dull and tattered like our neglected things atop our mantles, or the wardrobes’ cobweb-laden wedding gown

Left with whimsical memories of the freed doves – and the dove is just a pigeon that we love for her soft, white down.

But does the pigeon know that we see her as a clown? Why is she the pauper while her sister wears the crown?

And lastly, the crying girl who leans over her balcony finally dives into the sky with her good-byes damp on her pillowcase.

She didn’t fly then, but found her wings in the pile of things discarded from her room shortly after her guest-less wake.

Her body slumbered, forgotten, slowly sinking to the bottom of the geese’s’ foggy lake

Where the vultures can’t find her and feed down to her bones; where all of the things with wings can never travel, she rests alone.

But in the sky she’s learned to fly with the bats at night and the geese at dawn, and through the day all of the things with wings preen her feathers and sing her songs.

The same things who couldn’t grow wings carry on. Undaunted still, though not yet angels, they simply meander along.

A Wish on a Waning Moon

The softest of footsteps move down the hall, impossible for me to hear were it not for my vivid imagination. Curled up in satin sheets, daylight winks through the slanting blinds and stripes the bed with molten silver. Throughout the crack beneath the door, I spot your toes pause outside, your hand on the doorknob although the hinges hang open.

Why don’t you come inside?

My mind spins and my heart hammers until my stomach aches. How long do I have to wait? Time has me frozen here, my knuckles red from gripping the bed covers so tightly.

The door is open….

Yet the handle doesn’t twist. A shuffle against the dark wooden floor and I don’t see your shadow there anymore. I’d lift my head, but I’m paralyzed, still as stone in the crevice I’ve embedded into the mattress.

You don’t have to stay for long.

A cold sweat works up my face. I just need to move, just a little bit. To part my lips and cry for you to come back.

But I can’t….

I have no voice, I make no sound that your ears are capable of hearing. Is it because you don’t want to hear me? Because you don’t love me at all. I know this, but still, I’m warm and I have a beating heart. I bleed and I feel. Just tell me that it’ll be alright. Hold me one more time. Give me something to feel.

I fear that I’ve turned to stone, and time will no longer wake me in the morning. I’ll never move forward. I’ll never be somebody. I’ll never hope again.

The light through the sheer curtains pools onto the floor. Shadows move, but I can’t. I’m paralyzed. I’m a shattered doll. I’m a broken rose. I’m an eyesore.

In a world without warmth, I’m frozen still, too cold to move. The day is waiting for me, the sun fatigued, and yet I haven’t budged from my pillow. My skin is stuck to the cloth with tears like hot glue. My pained breaths echo through the room.

I just can’t move.

And until I do, I’ll bask in the rays of an eternal noon. The stars won’t come out to consider my fancies. My wishes float idly toward the ever waning moon.

Messages to David

Hey there, David.

I responded to that e-mail you sent me a few weeks ago, but I never heard back. I hope you’re doing alright. You asked me how I was, and I sort of ignored the question. I just want you to know that I’m alright. I do sometimes think about the days I could sit by you just to vent – you always gave such good advice, and though it may seem as if I never listened, it often takes me awhile to make sense of the things people say.

You were right about so many things, about happiness and self-love… they are things I continue to pursue, and when I feel discouraged, I remember how if all else failed you would just make me laugh. Sometimes we really do just need laughter in our lives. It doesn’t make everything better, but it’s the most effective pain-killer I’ve ever used.

I hope to hear from you soon.



It’s been awhile, David.

I hope all is well for you. I’ve been wanting to come around, but something stops me every time I come by that door. I hate to think it’s bitterness that lingers within me from some of the moments I had down in that office, but if I can’t let go, it’s better for me to just continue on with life and forget about the things that I can’t change.

I’m not very proud of the person I was, the person that people saw in me. I was impatient, angry, and never willing to admit when I was wrong. There was so little logic in some of my actions that I can only look back at myself in shame. I don’t want to walk down those halls and still be looked at as that person. What if nobody can forget the grudges they may hold, the picture of me that was engraved in their mind up until the moment that I walked away? I don’t want that ghost to live on, not within me or anyone else. That’s why I’ve sort of taken to pretending I never existed.

I remember telling you that I wished I didn’t. You never scolded me, but did explain the meaning of my words on other ears. I can’t say I don’t still feel that way sometimes, but I think it’s alright for me as long as I’m able to pick my head up and keep going.

I remember when you said that it’s normal to feel sad sometimes, how it’s only harder when people insist that you’re wrong for being upset. The fine line goes between when to be upset and when to just carry on… that line was more like fractured segments for me. I’m currently placing them on the floor, piece by piece until I can truly differentiate between reality and the one that I’ve created in my head. Logic is never wrong.

If I succeed, maybe I’ll be able to come by and joke around some day. Maybe I won’t feel an ache in my heart when I remember bad times, but I’ll remember the good things instead and smile.

Well, that’s enough for today.

I hope to hear from you soon.



Hey David,

You wouldn’t believe the day I had! To say it was turbulent is an understatement. I remember when you said that it’s alright to cry, or something along those lines, but when I tried, I couldn’t, and just felt very congested. What happens to those pent up butterflies in my stomach when they can’t get out? I don’t think they go away – I think they migrate to my brain and muddle my thoughts.

Life is strange.

I hope to hear from you soon.




I wonder if you’re ignoring me. It’s alright, I’m sure you’re busy, and you’re not obligated to reply. I often get upset with myself when I force my burdens on other people. Who wants to listen to a channel that only has bad news? I wouldn’t. That’s what people would refer to as ‘toxic’.

So I just stay away.

But how do I get that toxic out of my own mind? These thoughts sort of pop up to the surface of the lake, and it takes a moment for me to push them back down. But when they’re bobbing around in there, it’s only a matter of time before they float back up. I wish I could take a net, a filter of some sort, scoop it all out and toss it away. Then I could have a fresh, clean mind, something pristine and drinkable. Maybe then, people would be able to love me. As of now, how could they? I can’t even love myself.

I know, I know, these are changes I need to make on my own. I’m taking the time, I swear. I just need more time. I wish I knew how much, but as of now it seems like all eternity.

I hope to hear from you soon.



You know what, David, I think it’s been about three months since I even saw your face.

I often like to forget people, but you were always very kind and patient. That patience is insurmountable, hard for even myself to believe. How do you do it, David? You kind of shrug everything off, and it rolls off your shoulders. You’re impervious to any negativity that anyone throws your way. Were I like that, life would be so easy. Can I mold myself into something similar? You really inspire me to be better.

I’m sure you’re busy, so I’ll leave this message short. When you get some time, toss me a line.

Have a great day!




Are you also repulsed by what a mess I am? I wouldn’t blame you. I live a loveless life and it will always be that way. I often hate the thought of waking up in the morning. When I lay my head down, if I never had to get back up I’d be just fine. People always say: “Be happy you’re alive”. But a life of loneliness isn’t a life, it’s just existing. And then the questions come about – what is existing? Why do we exist? Why do I exist? Nobody can answer these questions, so I don’t expect you to. I just wish people could understand the way I feel, why I am the way I am, and maybe then they wouldn’t hate me.

I don’t want you to hate me too.

Good morning, David

I think I got a little too emotional in that last message. It’s like I said before; it’s unfair for me to put those burdens on others. I really need to get it together. I’ll just take some time away. I’ll leave you alone.

Take care of yourself.



Hey there, David!

It’s been quite awhile and you popped into my mind. I haven’t spoken to you or any of the others, but I’ve been pretty occupied.

When I was driving in to work today, I was early enough to watch the sun rise before I headed into the building. I thought to myself, that was a simple five minutes of time, but it set the day for me. There are tiny things in the world that are so beautiful, and they are gaurunteed as well. The sun will always rise, and set. But if we don’t take the time to watch it, we often forget about these little things that are so nice and that might bring us some happiness.

I had forgotten about all of the times I was able to laugh, to joke around and feel like part of a family. I had forgotten about having a shoulder to lean on whenever I needed it. Of course, there were bad times, but there were very good ones too. Had I remembered that back when I could come by and say hello, I would have done so, but I was too busy being bitter. Now I’m not sure if I’ll ever see you or anyone else in that office again.

I don’t know if I feel elated, but I have this odd feeling in my heart when I try to envision those faces – they’re blurry and distorted, but the smiles are impossible to forget. I never forget a person’s smile, it’s the most beautiful that a person will ever look when they are wearing it.

I know I talk about myself a lot, but I just want you to know I’m alright. Things aren’t easy, I don’t think they ever will be, but I know I’ll get through it. I cry sometimes, but not as often, and the panic attacks haven’t gone away for good but they are far less frequent. Those are very frightening and terrible, but I always remember that they aren’t infinite, and when they pass and I can breathe again I’m just happy it’s over. Everything goes back to normal, and I can be who I am.

I’ve stopped forcing my problems on people. It means I’ve withdrawn a bit, but I think it’s better for them. Some things look better from a distance, and I think I’m one of those things until I learn to treat people better. People also feel, bad things, and they don’t need my bad things on top of their own. I would like to be like you were to me, a shoulder to lean on. I would like people to be happy to see me, not to groan and wonder what ailment I’ll discuss today. I would like to smile at people pleasantly every morning and make sure that at least that second of their day is nice.

I try to do this constantly.

When I’m tired, I’m not as great to be around, but that’s when I sort of disappear. I quarantine the toxicity to the safeness of my home, and once it’s dissolved into the air, I can go back outside and everyone will be able to breathe.

If it’s a burden to hear from me, please let me know, but I’d love if you just had a second to say hello.




Spring is around the corner! Well, maybe a couple of months away, but that excites me already. These couple of warm days when the sun is out make me ecstatic! I do love the sun.

I’ve been meaning to tell you, if I haven’t already: people like you make the world keep spinning. The patience and sincerity that you bring is so hard to find on this earth, and so far I’ve only found a couple that I’ve been able to keep close. It makes me sad to not speak to you, but it’s alright, because I will always remember your kindness.

My friend told me that humans are social creatures, and at the time I disagreed. I very much like to be alone. But when I’m in the presence of someone who laughs a lot, I change my mind completely. When I’m around someone who isn’t enjoyable though, I’d rather just be at home. It really depends on what we need in our lives. Maybe you also needed someone to talk to, but I was too consumed in myself to listen. Now that I’m ready to listen, I don’t hear from you anymore.

I apologize.

I owe so many people apologies, but instead I just disappear. I hold a grudge on myself and it’s better that they eventually forget about me than fear I’ll just continue to contaminate their world.

It’s alright, I’m not sad about it. It’s a life lesson that I needed to learn. Had I gone on any longer like that, I probably wouldn’t have the will to live like I do now. I look forward to anything and everything, because an idle mind is dangerous. I think about ways that I can slowly change the world, starting with work and then some day going even further. I try to plan on being the best person, the best version of me that I can place forward. If people don’t like me, that’s alright. I like myself, and very soon I’m sure I’ll fall madly in love.

Things don’t happen overnight. Weeks, months and years… they all make up a lifetime. And for some, it takes a lifetime to fall in love. I fall in love with people who can never love me. If I can love myself, that problem will never exist again.

Anyways, that’s a bit of a long message there. I hope you have time for some heavy reading!



David, I’m so silly.

All of this time I’ve been wondering why I haven’t heard from you.

Well, I have this bad habit of sending messages and wishing I hadn’t done it. Things I write at an impulse, things that are nasty and rude. Then when the consequences roll back in, I can’t patch up the wounds that I’ve inflicted. I can’t make it all better by saying ‘sorry’. Remember when our friend told me about saying ‘sorry’ when I don’t really mean it? He was right, you know. Why would I say sorry when I’ll just do it again?

There’s a lot of people I wish to have spared from my nonsense, but you’re not one of them. These messages I’ve written you… I’ll never actually hit send.

I wanted to, but I was afraid. What if you somehow don’t have nice words to say? What if my name echoes around that office again? What will people say and think of me?

I just wanted to disappear.

So I suppose it’s asinine to take down these words you’ll never see, but I can’t regret something that I haven’t done.

It’s going to be a long road, David. Putting myself together, coming undone, taping back the pieces – I’ve laughed and had my eyes tear up when writing to you. I picture you reading these words. I wonder what you’d think, what you’d say. But if I send the message, the regret will take months to go away.

I’ll just leave things as is for now. But if you ever do want to talk, never hesitate. You know where to reach me. I’ll always be here, and I’ll always love to hear from you. And though you don’t know that you’re on my mind, maybe I’ll pop into yours one day when the stars align – then we can start from the top of these messages!

(…Just kidding. I hope I’ll be a better person by then. I want you to be proud of me when you speak to me again.)

Take care of yourself.

My dearest regards,



In my rage, I set fire to the field of daisies – it erupts in a haze, a harsh and dense cloud of smoke. The green withers into brown before it collapses into the ground.

I stare over the destruction, my heart pounding with regret. One bucket at a time, I pour water to douse the flames. The steam floats up and becomes a cloud, gathering thunder and raining down.

It sets ease to the fire, soothes my rampant desire for destruction….

Yet I still feel remorse at what I have done.

A chill spreads and numbs my bones, a frost crystallizing out of the cold. A single sprig of green is left – I hold it between my thumb and index finger. Still wet, but withered, it dies as slowly and painfully as all of the hope I have held in my chest for my trembling heart to lay to rest.

The morning’s sun melts away the icy layer, dribbling into a stream and filling up a void crater. The reflections on the surface match the light in my eyes – they flicker, they dwindle, they fall and they rise. A pool of saltless tears, it holds the echoes that nobody can hear across the vast and empty field. Prayers for mercy, prayers for touch. Her glassy surface never yields – no one comes to touch her.

And what will become of that desolate field? The plows come to mow away what is left of it, a valley filled with tiny, dainty skeletons shifted away in cold and heavy steel. Remnants of the grass remain stuck within the iron teeth – the giant sits abandoned with its duties no longer needed.

Days come, days go, and the grass sprouts again beneath the chained wheels. Tiny flower buds, creeping curiously where the sun called them. Maybe hopeful, though shy of all of the previous destruction. Will they trust the sun again? I do, when it shines just bright enough to turn the sky gold. I fantasize that life will break the casket that’s already begun to form a mold around my arms and legs, and will me to walk, to run again. As I rise from my proverbial grave, rust forms over the steel of the tractor.

And the weeds do the same, confident that strength will thrive again in the valley dense with their fallen men. Like the steel, I’ve grown so cold and impenetrable, my only shield my scarred skin that deflects all of those heavy blows. But the rust is eating tiny holes, making what was solid once again permeable.

Regardless of what I see myself as, I will be broken down, as nothing can’t be wilted – no tower won’t be tilted beneath a quake too powerful for its iron beams to hold steady against. The tractor is pronounced dead when its engine rumbles with dread, and it is towed forlornly out of the field, to no longer be an eyesore to those who pass without much care.

The roots release, they say farewell. They won’t miss that chapter of their cyclic hell. I say good-bye too, as I would say good-bye to you were you to uncover your ears and hear my voice take to the wind. I wish for you to touch me again, as I’ve touched all of these things and left them dead beneath my fingertips.

To the bottom of the ocean, the old scraps sink. The fish flee at the disturbed currents, peaking through the algae to see this sunken behemoth. It slumbers. Farewell. But is that the end?

Still, air summons itself from the tractor’s cracks and crevices and bubbles to the surface of the sea. Breathe. The foam licks the shore, and here I am to watch how unsure the current appears beneath a full moon. In this eerie light, so many shadows loom. In these strange bright beams, I see you – or your eyes, the way they glitter with so much emptiness. Your eyes, the way they hold my reflection, the true one without the bones and skin but the one that’s a casket with a screaming being within.

Where the water meets the shore, there is a dense and silky clay. Between my fingers I can mold it, but it quickly melts away. What can I do to make it stay? As God breathed life into sand from the sea, he didn’t seem to have much left for me, as I stare into the salt and brine and wonder what it feels like to die with my lungs filled with the scales of fish.

But then, you would call me selfish….

Yet, you didn’t seem to care much when I lived. The dead don’t hear you cry; they care for your regret as much as the charred field cared for mine. When the blade has struck flesh, one can no longer apologize, as the blood hears no remorse when it is drained onto the floor.

The clay is whisked away, pushed back deep into the sea, and somewhere it becomes an island – somewhere that island grows a tree. And when that tree spreads its seeds, a forest looms on that tiny piece of land where the sand and sea convene. The roots hold it all together to a tiny paradise, where I’ll set sail to one night and lie beneath the foliage.

The island births a field, one that is filled with daffodils that dance in a warm breeze. The summer creates a dry heat that makes it difficult to breathe. These plants and seedlings stifle me. I feel the fire in my heart once more. Fire. I crave it when I stand on the shore.

Cyclic are my impulses, eternity never resolving to forgive me for all of the damage that I have done. If only I could disappear as easily as a daisy within an ember. Then perhaps, become part of a lake, part of a rain cloud, part of an ocean and then an island. Desolate, alone, with no one to hurt me – save for myself, of course.

I flick my lighter. The peace has run its course. I want to fill the air with rage again, to feel, because to feel something is better than to feel nothing when none of it is real. Elemental and surreal, atomic and microscopic, unheard and disregarded are the tiny salt tears in a freshwater lake.

Just take me away and make me as malleable as clay. Shape me into something that can be loved. Give me feathers, birth me as a dove, and I will never again feel hate or rage or any dreadful plague. And if by chance I did, I would spread my wings and fly away to leave those awful things for dead. I’d rise like an angel with no tears left to shed, and turn my head from the earth below to forever forget regret.

Rain Drop

I see a cloud hovering above the lake, meandering somberly over the trail. The water longed to fly off like the mallards, rolling like cotton across the water. 

Fog, lucky you. I grow weary too. The heavy mist conceals my vision, but the breeze blows it softly until it disappears.

I want to fall into pieces, light and dewy, and take off with the wind at dusk. And after the sunlight illuminates the droplets with rainbows – so as to make my last appearance beautiful – I want to begin again.

 Up in the sky, in a cloud, a brand new raindrop with no memories of the grimy pond, the darkness or the cold. A rain drop won’t grow old. Neither will it die, but it will collide into the sky and become new, unjaded and unabused.

How I envy you.

This Hollow Town

This hollow town tried to deceive me, to make me believe that she is beautiful.

But the houses here are all empty, the doors are locked and the curtains are pulled.

The streets were paved of the blackest asphalt, void of any shine or shimmer.

The sky is grey and the clouds are dense; the sun is dull and the stars are dimmer.

I traipse around in search of a sound, like the bark of a dog or a child’s chuckle.

The frost has made a treacherous ground and the ice is biting at my knuckles.

I tell myself winter is a dreadful season – I’ll like this town much more in the summer.

By the time June rolls around my heart’s grown weary and my eyes start to wander.

I’ll pack my bags and run away, I tell myself that I’ll find a safe haven.

The airport isn’t far away, and it’s just a few miles to the train station.

As I gather my things, I hear muffled screams, and a wild wind pushes closed all the shutters.

I hear the door latch from within, then the walls are filled with low-pitched mutters.

One would assume a ghost or ghoul or forsaken spirit was roaming around.

But I was familiar to the cries and the desperate pleading of the lonely town.

The same voice whispers me to sleep at night and burrows in my dreams.

It takes this melancholy, empty world and fills it with warm and tangible things.

She puts a light dusting over my mirror to obscure the ugliness of my face.

And she rattles the vents and the water pipes to kill the awkward silence in this massive space.

This hollow town was meant for me, she’s kindred to myself and my hollow shell.

I guess I’ll stay a little longer, until one of us finds a tenant viscous enough to fill

That black and gaping empty space that swallows anything warm and real.