I tried to be formless;

an undefinable substance

no barriers & barricades,

no fear & no guilt

high on the freedom

 I owed the world nothing

so I wore the gold hat

& I bounced for her too

 I drank too much rich stuff

and ended up where dreams do

I, too soon, emptied

when richness tore in me a hole

a black hole, a void

playground of oblivion

“emptiness was a killer too”

one last hit of my cigarette

“& I just drove straight into its knife”

and the system ate me up


Your Modern Day Winona 

I wish life felt more like a movie.

Or maybe I wish I was born in the 80’s.

80’s and indie films had a vibe to them I crave to experience. I want to collect all my most eventful moments in life and edit in some background music and add some pink filter to each scenario.

But I’ve had too many let down expectations that I’m beginning to think I’m a convert to realism (dear God I hope not). I mean I don’t wish for perfectly timed intrusions or music suddenly playing when I kiss a boy. I don’t wish for surreal surprises or sweet gestures which only happen in old films and music videos with synchronized bursts of musicals. I don’t wish to be that (supposedly-unattractive-(but-the-actress-is-unfairly-really-good-looking)-loner-who-for-some-reason-everyone-finds-weird-so-they-stay-away-from-or-bully-her) protagonist of the story who unsurprisingly (because she’s our main character, duh) catches the eye of fame or good fortune. I don’t even wish for time slowing down when some over dramatic scene takes place.

However I secretly wish and hope, with crossed fingers, that there’s some oscar winning director up there, out there, somewhere, looking after me.

I have far too few adventures and excitement in life to be experiencing this number of idle days, bad days and regret. Like, where’s the balance? Where’s my John Travolta? Where’s my stroke of luck disguised as misfortune? Where’s my empowered gang of misfits? Where’s my breakfast club? Where are the grown ups feeding me cheesy wisdom and backing me up on all my dumb luck? Where’s the scene wherein I am the one surrounded, where I get to tell my sweet summer story instead of me being the one always hankering it out of one of my girlfriends?

But wait! Plot twist: it’s a one man show! Too bad I suck at direction and playing my roles right. & don’t even get me started on my abundance of bad timing and too daydreamy script writing. Maybe it’s true that life’s all a game of luck and that there was no one, no big encounter, to bump into when you turn that curb. Just an awkward moment and a dirty, stepped on shoe. Well damn, Nicholas Sparks. Damn, John Hughes. Damn, fiction for making a girl like me pretend to detest cheesy romance and fate and big dreams and never admit how much I actually look out for it.

Whatever, universe.

I mean

I just wish I had a fantastic wardrobe at least.

He and I

he was, maybe, too real for me

i was, perhaps, too daydreamy

perchance, he and i, we found same ground

in arms and warmth, craving safe and sound

stories and symphonies, constellation conversations

sung to and fro, sweetly lulling the sensations

he and i, both lost, now found

day light and night time, now to each other, bound

but one believed it romance, one consumed by lust

thus the best, like all the rest, had *sigh* been lost

to weak responses and empty, dreary promises

in mem’ries slumbering in regrets, reposes


the local sky seemed to be mocking

my every step, distant gazing; longing

scenes in clouds with an orchestra playing

on chaises, draped silk and bodies lounging

of deities, their duties to the world, forgetting

though i walk here, below, all chaotic; polluting

hungry for mercy as denied any blessing

for far festivities and wine and dancing

this treading soul having no partaking

Hand Shadow Puppets

Henry Fuseli – The Nightmare – 1781

we used to jest with shadows

creating harlequins of them

permitting ridiculing solemn

‘fore the age of conscious sorrows

but now, weary, old and sleepless

the puppets’ turn to toy with us

playgrounds of inner torment does

by your demons never restless