“Why do you write?”
Someone asked.
I smiled.
“It’s depressing when I read it.”
She continued.
And yet, I smiled again.

My hand trembles with the weight of the quill pressed between my fingers,
Each stroke an ever so remarkable miracle.
For my strength falls weak as I strive to write even more.
Though the ink has long since dried up, and all I am left with are scratches on a blank page.
Perhaps the fault does not lie within the weary pen itself,
But instead with the unstable hand that holds it.

Sometimes, I wish my story
Was written with a pencil
Instead of a pen.
To be able to erase
all the bad times,
The mistakes,
The what could've been's.
But in the end,
I wouldn't trade them for anything.
They made me who I am today.
And to me, that's everything.

put down the pen,

gown thyself in coats
of many riotous colors,
banish ‘never’ and ‘hope’
from thy lexicon, and
begin with a smile
always a smile as you
walk the streets as if to say
open open says me,
open sesame and let the
good works begin,
for having found your
captain of the muses,
your Calliope,
your rosebud,
lucky you!
you will need not write

another word

sweat dripping from my thighs
grey tank glued on me
i still got you on my mind
the world ending right before my eyes
murders crying wolf
my generation getting gassed and kidnapped
in the streets of LA, MIA, NYC, BA, CIN
drowning my days with tyler, the creator
humming to me
hoping to feel something
the way you used to make me feel
when we parted ways until our next life time

politicians hungry to violate civil rights
black, brown, trans
manifesting it in their dreams
they have it written in human blood
without a mask on to shield them
from the disease that is their greed

my perception jaded
my thoughts paralyzed
my body aching
might hit that pen
can’t even pick up a pen
having more time than my 20 years of existence

"When I put my pen on you paper,
It's as though we were meant to be,
As my ink soaks into your body,
You are like a soul mate to me,
For your texture inspires my movement,
As to which style i'm designing to write,
For the feeling I feel throughout my nib,
Is without a shadow of doubt my delight".


"When I feel your strong nib pressed upon me,
And your gesture of strokes as a pen,
I know that we are compatible,
I hope our new relationship never ends,
Although this is the first time I've felt you,
I don't want to be left blank again,
For I have found my perfect partner,
The ink of my dreams is you pen".

All wording not overly conveyed,
              I'm no dictionary.

My pen is my shield and my words
             my armour.

Sometimes dented, ridiculed,
            so not as lustrous as your

vocabulary giving,

but every symbolism
          I give in jest.

I can be a clown, watch my words prance on
              the page in fruitful

colouring of metaphor.

But other times I'm in the size seven
of another's outlook not my own,
emotion grazing my subconscious.

         For that fraction of eternity I'm them, you
I live there fears,  hopes wishes that die after I put the
                                                                ­             pen down.

Don't judge a piece of paper that has nothing on it,
           for will have a doodle, a thought..

A drawing of emotion entwined within its fabric.

   But you just ridicule, turn the page not knowing
                     the pain or joyful happiness
that went to create this...

Yes its not in your taste, but its there's, mine.

Were just artists of our own little world,
             and if you happen to land here.

Please be green..


   Recycle what you think,
and be positive,
    really do reflect on what others foresee.