Silenced.

the momentary look of willingness to be part of a conversation often gets noticed a second after the conversation has moved farther than would be appropriate for you to participate in. -Toto photo credits

Them and Me.

I write these words, hoping to have a therapeutic transaction between us. Them and me. Them—the words—to go away, and me: to move a step closer to more steps ahead. I tell myself, “I write for myself.” Yet these steps are a never-ending stretch of fatigue and the thought of you reading this, quickens my

A Grade Talk.

Hi. How you doing? Hope you’re feeling awesome. âť“ So I’ve began to write not knowing what to write, and instead depending on this teeny notion that perhaps a good ol’ blabber session would seem something like you’d be more than happy to read. Shall I presume I am right in this belief remains, yet, to be

Best/Worst

The best of surprises are people. When you are given a reason not to despair for they’re there to be around you, now and perhaps for how ever long forever lasts. You are known by them and together, you, all of you, are as though no other. As if the word “belong” could only be

OKAY.

Oh we still are frightened children; pulling the blankets a little higher and putting down our heads on legs, ones that shiver with the thought of what awaits us. No bedside lamp for this dark, to stop the shapes from becoming monsters, we are sword-less but shrieking in whimpers for help. And the world seems to become so

1 Year Blog Anniversary.

In the beginning, everything seems feeble and unimportant; not enough to matter. And yet one grabs on and holds onto a beginning as if it were, though feeble and unimportant, the only vine worth holding onto. Self believe can seem no less than a planting but know this, its roots run deep, holding onto you, as if you too were the only

WE, HUMANS.

We, fickle things, us humans. Ever needing to think: we need not become dependant. In an effort to soothe our hearts, the same hearts, that just wanted to have people to rely on. So mighty in that fort of yours; high walls of barren, empty halls. Numbness of the cold, not from some snow, but by being alone in the misery of your

MASTERPIECES.

So as the Spoken Word enthusiast that I am, I’ve been trying to write something for a while now. Well, not poetry (because I’ve done that a lot in the past few weeks) but just something else in general. Alas, I might have one of those writer’s block (I don’t much agree to the concept of it but