I read some writers and envision what they look like, wondering if they live in a little cabin by a remote lake. Just thinking , feeling, and existing on past regrets and jogs by the water. "


I shouldn't have ignored my brother, my upbringing, my grandma when she called and my dad who sits in his wooden chair, chain smoking Kool Kings, drinking burnt coffee and watching the news for any signs of WW III.


"I swallowed hard at the thought of this, and decided whether to take it as an insult or compliment. Probably the latter of the two."

Everything in this city seeps of dead-ends. The streets, the hair, the broken down cars and people. The inspiration oozing out of the cracks in the sidewalks. The people are forever wondering, forever stuck in their ways, forever droning on.

"My best friend is reliable as dirt. Actually dirt is pretty dependable now that I think about it."



Friday, November 11, 2011

I write in people's journals when they aren't looking. Our lives our chaotic, yet here we sit, still. The coffee is cold, but it feels good.

Wednesday, September 28, 2011

how i spent my summer


poems in elevators and such

Monday, July 18, 2011

"I have to see you again," he said and I knew it might never happen, because life is chaos and one never easily falls in love. But here were were, on earth. Where fate played in it's own favor, the window of beauty opening and closing, give you a shimmering rush of life before cutting you coldly off, and it all slips away.

Wednesday, July 6, 2011

I literally have been writing for three days. My skin is pasty, and my eyes are etched with dark circles...at the beginning of July.

perfect lie

This summer has consisted of nothing important. The sun beats down and people still revolve in and out restaurants, staring blankly outside as if looking at a ghost of themselves in twenty years. The street always smells of litter and roasted coffee. This city is hollow, yet I cannot leave.


I have dreams my hands are old, and I cry at the sight of them.


I once fell in love with a writer, and realized all at once, I was in love with his writing, which wasn't him at all.
Does anyone know how to become a successful overnight writer? (what does that even mean?)

Saturday, April 16, 2011

There are (a lot) of times I wonder if I should write.
Or if it's meant for me.
What would I do if I didn't have it in my life?

I am going to the coffee shop to write.

I work at a restaurant where my coworkers are constantly hungover, and the customers use coupons and complaints to pay for their meals. I have to remind myself that $2 tips add up but who are we kidding? It's not paying the rent.

Tuesday, March 22, 2011

I harbor a tiny, flame in the freckles of my eyes. It shines insessiantly. I try to extinguish it from strangers.



I try to sleep it away.

Wednesday, December 8, 2010

forget me, it's that simple



I still hear you
feel your smile
sense your warmth
and that stare,
that gaze is still embedded in my pink brain.
Please find me.
I miss you terribly.
I need to see you.
Find me,
find me,
find me.
I know you can feel me.
At least I hope you can or this feeling I have will vanish into nothing...

Friday, November 26, 2010

some guy just told me he never saw anyone writing before. as in physically putting a pen to paper. isn't that weird?

"you don't have the sense, to tie your tangled tongue."