It’s Over

Yeah, I’m pretty sure.

Pretty sure I’m sick of you.

You and your heart break.


It Hungers

Here in the shadows

It is quite simple to feed

The darkest of thoughts.


Ever-Changing Paths

The shifting of sands

Reshapes which paths you can walk

But you take the steps.


Hunter the Cat

He watches the fish

With a piercing, icy stare

Waiting for his chance.


Changing of the Seasons

Do you hear the birds?

They sing with such pensiveness;

Waiting for winter.


Do you ever hear the aching call of the black void, so calm and so quiet, yet full of remorse and desperation? With the controversy over 13 Reasons Why, as well as the general sense of nihilism among many of my Millennial counterparts, I figured I should take a short time to talk about it, since I shared in an interesting conversation about “the darkness” with someone recently.

As I and others of my age group grow into adults, we become more and more aware of our place in the world…as tiny specks. One in seven billion. It is hard to feel special when the numbers are so stacked against us, even if we are the biggest living generation around. The sense of hopelessness and inability to succeed seeps into our everyday life—which in the grand scheme of things is ironic, since Millennials are better off than most generations that the United States has experienced, in terms of upbringing and living conditions (though that doesn’t necessarily mean anything. Saying someone with a DVD player is more well off than someone with a VHS player is negligible when neither has a television). I think this is an apt reason for why Millennials are often considered entitled, but I don’t really want to rehash an argument that boils down to opinion and chosen perspectives, so that’s all I will say on that.

What I do want to talk about is the sense of hopelessness; the so-called “void” people often reference. Maybe it is because we have (sort of) normalized feelings of depression, enough to where people can speak more openly about it, but I don’t know. I think perhaps the actual depression might be hidden somewhere else. Regardless, this void is something we (Millennials) talk about together. The general sense of “I don’t want to adult” or “everyday is awful.” First of all, it isn’t the first time this has happened—every generation goes through struggles becoming an adult, Millennials are just a little later to the party.

BUT, this sense of hopelessness also is a call for unity and common ground. I can go up to anyone in my school and show them a meme about “struggles” or “#adulting” or “anxiety and depression” and they will get it—half of them will probably openly admit the text lingo “same”—which means “I feel the same way.” Which, I think, in some ways provides avenues for happiness down the line. This is because, in theory, life will not always be so daunting. At some point we will all come together with our common experiences and have one united voice. It also helps break down the barriers that other generations have experienced—race, sex, romantic inclinations, etc…they all pale in comparison to the feeling of “the void” (I am hopeful the same is true for class, but we shall see).

Anyways, those are just my thoughts on the struggle that many of the blossoming youth in America are dealing with. Do you agree or disagree? Have further thoughts of opinions? Let me know!



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The sick stench of rot

Permeates from my soul,

Like the spilled glass of juice

Across the tiles this morning.

It seeps into every crevasse,

Every wooden frame,

Until it’s made a home in my life.


Of course, life isn’t always this way.

There are sunny days;

Laughing friends;

Happy thoughts.


But come the pale moon rise,

I’ll find myself shielded

Inside my room.

My fortress of solitude,


But lonely.


Is it really a surprise

That my sheets are stained

With the faded remnants of blood;

Grown so old

That they look like the brown sores

From a festering spider bite?


And the knife hangs

From my desk table,

As a reminder of my sins;


And future.


The quiet piano music,

Sullen and defiant,

Reminds me there’s so much to live for,

Yet I cannot grasp it.


I sit there. Empty

Like a void,

Silent, quiet, and irrelevant.


And I just

And I just

And I just…


I just don’t want to be alone.


Not again,

Not anymore.

The ruthless onslaught

Of the rain’s downpour

Hammers my heart

Into the ground,

But I know

She’ll never come around.



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Too Many Writers

I read less than write,

But all that I write is read.

Does that make me wrong?


Lecture Halls

Click-click goes the pen

As the class drifts off to sleep.

Higher thought indeed.


Sleepless Nights

I just want to sleep,

But there are too many lights.

Mom! Stop partying!



“Praise be unto Zeus

For he has brought us the rain!”

Words from a rapist.



I fell through a haze

Of smoke that was in my car

To the universe.



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Valentine’s Day.

Gal-entine’s Day.

Pal-entine’s Day.

There’s so much love to go around:


Friends posting pictures together,

Lovers singing each other songs.

They’d bet it would last forever

But boy, let me tell you, they’re wrong.


Every song has a final note

And the ink on pictures will fade.

Love isn’t quite as it is wrote,

Rather, it is something that’s made.


Love is made in the dark of night,

When all others have gone to bed—

Conversations after a fight,

When emotions are colored red.


It is found in those few moments

That nobody else gets to see

Where we each share our atonements.

That’s what I think true love would be.


Of course, I say that while I sit

In a place that’s devoid of it.



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Good morning my dear!

I…I said good morning!

Can she even hear

What I am saying?

I asked my husband
You know, I think not.

It looks like she’s got

No time for her parents;

Just time for our presents.

What a spoiled brat.
No mom. I’m just asleep.

I was up all night.

And I’m only up, dad,

Because you don’t let me

Go out during the day.

A spoiled brat, indeed.


I wrote a poem for you

But I didn’t think you’d want it.

So I let it go.

I let it fly out across the wind

Up and up

Until I couldn’t see it again.

And I’m told it flew so far

That it passed through storms

And sunny skies alike.

Until, finally, it landed

In a hot, vapid fire

And it was consumed

For the paper fuel it was.


In that way, I suppose,

It was like me.


Life was good, until They showed up. I never saw it coming. Love is such an unexpected feeling. It caught me off guard. One day we had been forced into a group in class. The next, we were texting, tagging each other in silly pictures, and giggling on the walk to class. I asked them to dinner one morning, and They looked at me curiously. I can still remember their face so well. They had eyes with total uncertainty for a moment, then a smile crept to their face.

“Sure,” they had said—and I got excited. I had thought things were finally progressing, after months of waiting. The dinner was lovely—we went to a classy Italian food place in downtown, just a few miles away from the school with both went to. They looked absolutely radiant—dressed in all black. We laughed and smiled and joked for hours. All through the breadsticks, the brucheta, the main course—we both had ordered pasta, and finally a dessert we shared. We split the check, which I had never done with a partner before. But, I had thought, we both valued each other equally, so the unexpected became something I cherished. We embraced for a hug at the end of the night before parting ways.

It had been such a nice date—at least, I thought it had been a date. But a few dinners later and the sweetness grew sour. I had gotten a bit too excited. Too proud. Too courageous. At the end of each dinner we hugged for a moment longer than usual. I looked into their eyes, searching for permission. I quickly leaned in to kiss them—just a quick peck, to test the waters. I stepped back sheepishly and waved goodbye. They looked shocked, which I had hoped meant a good thing. But the next day, things seemed a bit off. They seemed reserved. I asked them what was wrong.

“People don’t kiss me,” They said. We were walking to class, down an empty hallway. It was cool indoors, but not cold by any means. I stopped and looked them in the eyes. They looked so empty and lost. I stepped forward to hug them, but their arms did not embrace me as they had before. Instead, they put a hand on my chest, and pushed a space between us.

At least, that is what I had thought it was for. We stayed there for a while, talking. My arms fell to my sides, but their hand stayed on my chest—holding me in place. Their hand was so warm, like it were against my skin. In fact, it was on my skin. Then, the most horrifying thing happened.

Their fingers stiffened, and she pressed them hard against my chest. So hard. It felt like knives. It burned. I felt my skin peeling apart, being sliced by their sharp nails. The skin turned to muscle, and the muscle to bone as they buried beneath. Layers of self-doubt, of pain and hatred, were all stripped away, as they drilled into me. I could feel my heart racing. I looked them in the eye. They were still smiling, still talking—though I knew not what they said anymore. Their fingers found my chest plate, and stopped for a moment. I could feel their index finger dance along it, looking for a way through. I was breathing heavily. My heart was pounding like a drum. They looked at me again. I felt their hand curl into a fist inside me. Their left arm moved to my shoulder to steady me, and they punched through my chest plate.

The bone shattered, like glass from a bullet, leaving my heart alone as it beat quicker and quicker. Blood was dripping onto the hallway floor now, in little droplets like the tears that streamed down my face. They gripped my heart. It was chilling to feel a hand feel it beat. They caressed it for a moment, before tightening their grip. My heart struggled, beating wildly for a moment, before they tore it from its housing and out of my body. My shoulder’s slumped, and they watched me drop to the floor. My knees hit the ground first, stopping my decent for an instant. There was no pain. Blood poured from my chest to the floor, and the pool engulfed my whole body. I felt my face hit the ground a moment later, but my eyes were to filled with tears to see anything. As darkness set in, I could hear them walk down the hall, the Click-clack of their shoes echoed around me. Then, it was all gone.


I like my home. It’s this cozy, warm place where I can relax and think deeply. Sure, there are some flaws to it. There’s no windows, no doors. There’s really no way out at all. But at least it’s comfortable. Tight, maybe, but comfortable. And I really have no need to leave. Mr. and Mrs. I bring me all sorts of lovely images. Movies, pictures, books. They never say anything, but I like to think they are chiefly important. They I’s are really open, and kind, despite their oath of silence. They can be quite expressive. When they smile, it’s like the morning in spring. Quite a lovely sight.

Mr. Nez stops by a lot too. He always smells like the latest fragrance from Chanel. Kind of a pompous old man, but he’s kind and somewhat of a grandfather figure to me. I mean, he’s been there as long as I can remember. Of course, he never shows up when I’m sick. He can be so self important sometimes. Tells me traffic is bad, and he can’t make it out. Still, he brings me pies from down the street that fill my house with a sweet scent for days.

I think my best friends are the Earls. They are always giving me things to listen to and telling me about the day. They’re a soft spoken people themselves, often listening to me ramble on, but were it not for them I would probably have never known the value of peaceful silence. They told me about a girl I should meet, Virginia I think was her name. But that’s for another day.

Oh and then there’s my teachers. Madame Rouge and Monsieur la Main. They are just as annoying as they seem. I mean, they are so particular. They even require me to call them that. Still, I’d be nowhere without them. I mean, la Main gave me the ability to reach out to people, and the coordination to succeed in life. Mme Rouge is even weirder. She’s pretty nice, and she never stops talking, so I rarely have to interject. Sometimes she doesn’t know when to shut up though, which is supremely annoying, since she usually blames me for her mistakes. Which I guess is fair sometimes, since if I had simply made her slow down she might have had a moment to gather her words. I work with her on a daily basis, learning new words. We sometimes play games with accents, though usually that’s done when we are alone.

Oh, I’m so sorry, I’ve gone on about my life and the people in it, and I haven’t even taken the time to introduce myself. I’m Tete. At least, that’s what people call me. I do all sorts of things from my home. In fact, for as small and closed off as it is, I often take myself to whole new worlds in my alone time. Sometimes that get’s tiring, but I love it. My whole world melts away and can be replaced by nearly anything I desire. I can be in a field, in a factory, or in bed with a pretty girl. Still, sometimes I like to wallow in the depths of an ocean that I cried into existence myself. It’s somehow reassuring sometimes to know I can experience my own feelings. Anyways, I’m not sure how you got in here, and I’ve been rambling on and on for quite a while, but you’re welcome to stay a while. I’d love to hear a bit about your, but if you’d prefer I have a number of stories to tell you. What was your name again?


Can what? Can Sir? Sounds ominous. Let me grab your bags for you-Does anyone know you’re here? Well, make yourself at home, but don’t set up shop too much! I have things to do with my life.


I can feel the sticky sweat setting

And the cool little blisters on my skin

Well up into the layers of bedding.

My body starts to feel paper thin,

My lungs struggle against each pain filled breath,

And I pray for blessed sleep to take me,

But my prayers are caught in a web of death,

Behind the mucus that no eyes can see.

And when my prayers are finally answered,

I find dreams to be a twisted nightmare.

My personal sanctuary disturbed;

By God, could it be that He did not care?

And as the rot begins to spread within,

I ask “why such torture for minor sin?”