FOR THE UNIVERSE IS INFINITE, there is the cycle of days and nights of human emotions. Endless cycle. But the sun set and never rose again for us, you’ll think hunger for light will strike but no, the light becomes our enemy and its absence opened our eyes to what could only be perceived when you cannot see.

The edges of isolated, dark, and deep shadows are traced, highlighted, made more powerful by the muted and distant echoes of lost light.

So yes there’s still the ghost of sunlight, there’s still the moonlight, the twinkle of billion stars but they’re not salvation, they’re nothing to us but a proof, a mockery of our endless nights.

But we could never be more thankful because we discovered that we, in fact, are Endless.

-foreword of an unwritten novel

This journal contains original poetry or random writings that represent the darker side of my mind, and maybe, the darker side of the world as well.

P.S. I'm not suicidal.

The young tragic novelist

Attempted cigarette puffs
To know what's all the fuzz
And whatever's good with throat that burns
With lungs that scream
Yes, now he knows
Yes, now he gets
And that's the point
And nothing else

'Round him, if smoke you see
Pretty little rings
Or chaotic gush
Through gritted teeth
Toxic clouds
It's on command
To paint him white or grey or not
To make sense of this and that

Around him, if all the world moves
His clock stops, his clock sits down
Neither here now
Not there then
Don't judge for all the blur
How it goes and how it fades
From outside, them he sees
And from his perch, you'll see him smirk

He's lost, he would admit
That he's not scared, that is his strength
That he's not running, that is his step
For staying there right where you are
Sometimes a move, sometimes a flight
Rushing in and running out
Moving up and going down
The feel of them could be a lie

As you mistake running away
And ends up back from where you start
You'll see the boy, cig in his lips
Smoke clears, then would reveal
Words written
Where once was bare
For what he does, right from the start
Commanding words right on his lap

Yes, he's lost and he's lost still
But what he did, in lost he dwelled
And beneath his seat
A palace built

From out your life
He wrote new worlds
While you might say his life's not lived
When all your lives are also his
And how you loved and how you lived
And how you failed
The art of it
His masterpiece


Flushed, golden skin
Hair, sun-kissed
Short, shaggy curls
With the wind they wave

Short, stubby fingers
Oily faces
Eye wide open, awake
But to brightness they squint

Always waiting for the sun to set
And when it did
Waits for it to rise again
Or when it did,
Hopes for it to never come

Doesn't make a difference

Thinking what's for supper
Thinking of thy bed
Their backs hitting the mattress
A lover greeting thy beloved

Round at the edges
Full thy feeling
But inside, nothing
But reeks the smell of bread

And then, that's it
See thee
Or that day after

Doesn't make a difference


Sickly, paper-white pale
Hands trembling
Nails ragged,
Where chewed or scratched against own skin

Long hair
Grimy, straggly, greasy

Eyes deep, dark

Wiry and boney
And tall

Prominent teeth

Lines and angles on their features
Permanently trapped in 3 AM
Thrives on coffee
And other liquid bitters

Lips chapped and dry
And shut
Thoughts crawling
Never spoken

Shivering, itching
Trapped in own skin
Never to escape
No matter how deep one clawed

Him Who Danced Third

His thoughts tattooed on his skin
For him it's liberating
To be proud of himself amid a world that won't

For all that went wrong
And for all that will
Fate he blames, life, the world
Never, never himself

Is it an excuse
Or is he a genius

His feelings, his words on autopilot
He's a loaded gun
Fingers always on the trigger
His aim never one

When down on him, you look
This his defense
You don't know me
(He wouldn't hear the irony)

For all that is
What he wants from deep
Is for you to look
And look closely

His heart tattooed on his skin
And it's a plea, a silent one
Please look at me
Please, please know me

His soul tattooed on his skin
But no one looks
Not even him
No one looks
And no one sees
And no one cares

And no one will

Good mouth, really loud , 22 but looks younger, would bareback for 200

Him Who Danced Second

Layers of skin
Soft inside

Rather be loved,
Worshipped for who he's not
Than hated,
Thrown away for who he really is

At the edges
At the core

Likes the pristine
But as that he's not
Hated it in defence
Causes it, infects

He is his own painting
All the world's the canvass
Look hard and touch
But only the painter knows his art

And like all art, he's presented
Never in the process, not when raw
At times, that way he acts
Then that's his finished product

His stage name is a tree
Up the pole is where he's free
And when he strips that's not bare skin
But all his scars he's painted pink

Sol City, Where I Was Born

A tribute to what was once thriving and beautiful
A churchyard
Churchyard of modernity, fossil of progression
What ceased and regressed to a certain point of stagnation

There on top of decaying towers
Concentrated clouds
Lower grounds with unsaturated mist
Like billow of smoke, the ghost of it

Moss, ivy, weeds
Crawling on crumbling cement,
Abandoned buildings,
Rusty gates

Thunder and lightning
Garbage and pungence
Flickering, dim lights
Kerosene lamps

Frantic steps make disgusting splat splat splat against never dry pavement
Splat splat splat
Distant howls, distant bays
Everything echoes

Suffocating cold
Among the garbage cans
A baby cries