I write & shoot (photographs) occasionally

Month: August, 2014


once upon a time i told the sky

she was beautiful

and in her i flew my hopes and dreams

because i knew my kites would never get torn by the 

wispy clouds and flames of sunset

she gave me her oxygen and in turn

inhaled the smoke from my candles, quickly fading


but the sky won’t remember me 


and neither will 



tell me truthfully

tell me truthfully

if the trying part matters at all

because i try to glean the giggles from our past and all i see

are echoes conjuring up old letters we believed in

now trapped in the cage of stasis with no meaning beyond dried ink


and the truth hurts but i still want to know:

is it only the keeping part that matters

the weak hold over the beautiful intersection of our past lives that we try to

extrapolate into the future

the initiated meet-ups, the temporal hellos, the perennial goodbyes


but dear, our graph has gone awry

the truth hurts only because

it is only in the present that hurt

can manifest itself physically


and it would go on forever if you never 

stopped it

an unraveling thread of insanity marketed as creativity 

not that the record labels would mind

but what a noble profession music is

to allow others to derive pleasure from your 

tune of suffering 


the tender worn veil slips off my face

floats a little on salt-heavy wind

and vanishes into the foam that crashes onto the shore

meticulously woven threads dissolving into dirty bubbles and drowning into liberty

before its creator’s very eyes


it concealed me from the world but now i see

the lethean ocean in its


the flight of cranes

 the whisper-thin ghost of your breath

      glazes the jar with

            dangling strings of fairy lights in

                  unspoken hopes and dreams

                          every word compressed into the

                                  vaguest utterance

                             of a future tinted with silver linings

                       hope like the gentle breeze lifts the edges of 

                  spring origami paper as the first

            of a thousand cranes falls into

      the dream jar


we live in a world where the

soft gleam of gold can easily buy us 

blood, sweat, soul

but is all this not in artifice?


the blood i give you can easily be 

blended rust of internal disuse to quench

the inexplicable need to show my 

humanly worth

in decibels of hard, cold radiance lain in open palms


the sweat i give you may not be hard work

but the moisture collected from rain and put through a 

salt machine

moulded into teardrop formation


the soul i give you can 

unquestionably be the counterfeit construction of the masterpiece of 

human emotion

and the price my fake figurine fetches

is only as much as your cheap gold


tonight I will rock myself to sleep in a giddy ecstasy

because for once the stars captured in my jar;

my share of the universe shines

ever so bright


it was just a small moment in the train today

but you brought me whizzing through a tunnel of 

filmy memories


with new truths you

constructed a new reality of the world i

had to leave behind


and these accumulated lego bricks 

constitute the universe you live by 


the nature of tragedies

Tragedies slice the air in hushed whispers

and newspaper headings glare with a sad glow that blinds

Eyebrows frown and lips droop down

The occasional tear is shed

Sympathetic grimaces last

too quickly as we obliterate from our lives the fleeting distractions from our immediate path

Dead bodies and broken bones littered along the sidelines of our journey fade into an

extinguished existence in our heads

People who deserve to be remembered 

make their mark in minds,


Only the ones who hold them dear save

every last fibre in their hearts


I am spinning in a world of mistakes 

with crushed paper balls for cotton candy clouds and skies stained blue with storybook tears 

The grass is emerald green shards of smashed beer bottles with gentle blades that draw blood 

And alcohol runs deep and never dry

The muddy earth is the gory decay of living souls and the path of footprints for unweighted existences 

Bruised brown like soft fruit with dents in our minds and holes in our hearts