So so far away

The world pivots on dreams, and dreams are scattered specs of desire that once held form.
When one day the world crumbles, I will save its name, keep it in a bundle and hold it up for fame.
If one day the world shall crumble, I will too obey, do everything I could, but still die with it, someway.
I wish I were a serpent, a smiley sneaky thing, moving towards dreaming, and spit all mine to it.
And then the world won’t crumble, because my dreams would stay, removed from me with passion, to hold up the home we made.

Insert notes.

Insert notes.

Insert notes.

Point Blank | Art by Aron Wiesenfeld

aron wiesenfeld

This is the point where life drops me off and calls it a day,

And the hurt crashes into me so hard that it tears my clothes off of my back,

My scabs off of my wounds.

I’m left standing in the cold,

Feeling nothing but the sharp wind spiking at my bareness.

I look back at the world and see myself; I look inwards and see nothing.

My Love For Her Blisters My Skin | Art by Pejak

Shuffled around like a crap hand – pejak

they liked using me on the rookies.


This isn’t a poem. It isn’t a story –

It’s just an observation,

that some behaviors can’t be explained,

some emotions can’t be categorized.


I was a violent shit, head lost in self hatred.

I guess that was God’s joke on us both.



Cherry Blossom Trees and Ruby Red Knees

I wish I could swing between moments,

Glide through life’s rages, whisper ‘don’t hurt me’ to my lovers.

I would try to catch Moment’s harrowed beauty as I swung by,

Letting it twine through my fingers, watch it escape them like stray hairs moving with the wind.


I would let my sisters tell their story,

A second later, recall their last line.

I would listen to my parents –

Skip past their white silk lies.


But the thing I’d really wish for,

If I really swung through time,

Is that moment before sadness,

When the sun promises it’s shine.





Morning day dreams and brain puss night screams. A poem about repetition.

I remember the days when I worked so hard that every night upon sleeping I felt as though i was laying the weight of ten bricks on my pillow. My brain had turned solid, stifled by the information I screwed into its once fleshy, open pores.


One time I felt as though my brain had turned into a brick, I worked it so hard.


I worked so hard that my head grew heavy.


I could barely lift my head I was so tired.


“Aw man, that’s nothing. I swear down I couldn’t even lift my head off my  desk working on that shit.”


I feel exhausted.


I work too hard.


My head hurts from overworking.


I don’t work anymore, but boy, when I did I worked hard.


Work? No way, I burnt myself out with that thing.


I’m on vacation.


I’m desperate for a break.


I’m frustrated that I’m burnt out. I want my work to mean something so badly, but I just can’t carry on.


I’m out of ideas, and I hate myself for it –


But this one time, I worked so hard…


Pillow Painting

If I let you stand over me,

Will you milk me of my every nightmare?

Every sheet I turned crimson with horror,

All of it – from petty wail to violent shudder?


Wrap and wring your slimed hands around my breasts and pump out all my poison.

Please, I want to see the green puss squirt away from me,

Let me hit the wall, let me hit the wall.


Your tallness reminds me of splintered scarecrows

beating away the peckers.

I want you to beat them away, Roger.

Beat them away until I turn blue,

Until I feel sober,

Until I meet you,

Once again and forever.