Below is a collection of poetry and prose that I wrote in hopes of being poignant to help me get through the troublesome month of April (as well as some photographs I took traversing the world, in areas I probably shouldn’t have walked through).


Somehow under the breadth of all this tumultuous absurdity,

There was a moment of lucid clarity.

— Sight



Don’t forget to take into account those years of unintended prejudice and discrimination we have face whilst bringing in new life into the world.

Don’t forget that we have not lived our lives to the fullest for centuries, if not since the beginning of this species’ domestication.

Don’t forget that while we fight underneath the scrutinizing eyes of those said to be better than us solely because of one chromosome, we still must resist against years and years of teachings and practice so far engrained into history.

Do not forget, that we matter and make sure that you remember our eternal struggle.

Just know that we will persist in our own empowerment, until we prevail.

— A woman’s tale



She knocks back that glass, wincing at the rough taste that glides past her tongue. It’s not enough, however, more of the liquid amber has to be poured into the glass to reach a state well above her limit of drunkenness. It’s to calm the suffering, almost medicinal in a way, though she still cannot comprehend how the lethargic numbness works.

How it affects her firing neurotransmitters so easily. Her fingers shake mindlessly and she clutches them with her other hand, glaring at them to halt for once in her godforsaken life.

It’s a sort of explosion in the back of her temples, the drink’s intonation that is and she downs what she thinks is her third as she steps on to the land mine of her induced pounding head. It’s for the best, she assumes, the white stars in her vision from this physical pain – calming down the mental vengeance that her thoughts hold against her.

She’s at fault for this – blaming others would be the easy route out for if she had been less headstrong, yet more resilient to the calling of the drug she could’ve saved herself. But now, she’s finished her sixth and it’s far too late.

Her head drops down on to the cushion of her seat, arm dangling loosely in the blackness of her dreamless state and glass shattering beyond ruin.


This cycle, this run through of daunting torment continues everyday and she would loathe for its cessation.

— Addiction: the ironic story of sobriety.



Apparently there’s supposed to be a way that I should approach this quietly. And pleasantly, perhaps. Yet, those marks, those that you believe to be indents from the moment I was born, the rustic prints that form around all around my skin as a reciprocation of sorts. Those weren’t caused by human touch, but no those weren’t formed by themselves either, as mutations of genes and such else. But. There’s always a but isn’t there. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Or occur. What shouldn’t, couldn’t but did occur, was that I let this slip out of my fingers and transpire into a grand scheme of a transient facade. A mask which keeps growing and changing, forming and embedding itself deeper onto me and gripping tightly on a vessel which no longer can exist without the choking respite of thought.

— Infernal Gospel



It could be the way that your ascension into the famed otherly has me ironically silent, my vocal cords unmoving of any breathy vibration for the first time in many days. However, the decadence of my voice has no relation to the supposed manner you now take on, shoving your nose high up into the air so as to properly look down upon me in shamed pity. I stare speechless at your severity of action, and this itself is enough to speak volumes in place of my empowered, and quite useless, vocabulary. It’s the matter whirring between us, the lack of sound waves that create this dissonance between us and rather, remove any sort of before we used to have.

— Charged Silence



You know what color love reminds me of?


That shimmery, bright, rustic, malleable


Do you know why?

Because though it is gorgeous and pure,

It is also brittle and revered with the utmost contempt.

Love, like gold, holds death upon its palms.

But love, like gold, holds richness in its embrace.



There’s a certain finesse to the degree at which things fall apart, right when they’ve just melded perfectly together. It’s maddening, to say the least, but provides the utmost satisfaction in the act itself.

It’s like the Law of Entropy, things spontaneously fall apart, destruct for that matter, because the universe continuously expands and they couldn’t do a damn thing about it.

It wasn’t that they hadn’t tried, but when matter tends to act on its own will – even the slightest interference would result in a greater explosion of hate. It was a sort of beautiful, ironic chaos like a belt of tightly strained meteors amidst the black darkness of the present galaxy, acquiescing together waiting for the right moment, the perfect moment, to bring everything to gentle ruin.

There was something about chaos theory that was present within their story. The little things had caused this sensitivity, a striking shakiness that could only end with destruction.

This change hadn’t occurred quite instantaneously, no. Rather, all of the hydrogen in the light that had encompassed their supposed love story had seemed to have burned out trying to fuse together without forming a helium isotope and now there was solely the tense wait for the explosion to occur.

And yet, there was a glare of nothingness present, similar to when a star doesn’t collapse into a beautiful supernova of destruction, but instead pressurizes itself into a neuron star and consequently, a black hole.

It wasn’t quite that they had fell out of love for one another. It was that when the moon tries to meet with the sun whilst ignoring the earth, an eclipse tends to occur and darkness ensues in a dark circle surrounded by a halo of light.

That halo could have been their salvation had they not looked into the eclipse without protection, and now the blindness that had occurred had resulted in their undoing. They were now dark and though eclipses occur almost every cycle, this one was particularly affective, for this one had resulted in something larger than pure blindness. This one was not dealt out of ignorance and they hated, hated, how they were the ones to cause the collapse of the sun forcing the nonexistent eclipse to turn dark immediately.

It hadn’t ended suddenly either. No, the spontaneous breakdown occurred slowly for days, building up a storm that resulted in a frigidly cold ‘heat death’ of sorts – the universe had been frigidly cooling for days and though the sun supported the Earth in its endeavors, they became blind from staring at the sunspots for far too long.

Perhaps it was because they had stared at the sunspots for far too long and were now blind to each other’s existence.

Maybe it was the way they had become accustomed to each other’s existence, never once considering that the sun too had its own life, that one day it would solely be a big red ball of gas hurtling towards its own explosive supernova.

Perchance this dark matter was becoming its own form of antimatter, a formation of destruction of everything in its path in a careless notion, and that was all that remained of this totality.

— the apogee of decoherence



Write. It is the only thing to do. For every stroke of pen, every letter and character that forms on the soft crinkle of worn page, is the only thing maintaining some sort of sanity within.

Write because when it all stops, almost as if coming to a sudden halt someday, the only thing remaining will be those words and phrases composed and intertwined to create gorgeous illusions and elegant satire.

Write. For only then will the dark spans of the mind unravel and sort its utter absurdity of reason and doubt.


(and read. so those lost words and missing dreams can be found)

— to all writers.



I’m not okay.

not by any means, but

there is something nestled underneath my skin

awaiting to arise and brighten my skies

and I will wait for the day

it graces me with its presence

and when it finally does

I will not forget it.

— It’s Hope