Lets talk about being organized! The SCARIEST thing in life since sliced bread. Wait. That’s not how that works. Anyways, being organized is something that I am simultaneously great at and terrible at. And I mean TERRIBLE. Like I have books in four different places in my room, and none of them are where I keep my books to be read. I have things in my clothing drawers that are not clothes. Like organization is not my strong suit at home.

But then at work, I organize nearly everything more systematically and efficiently than anyone else on shift, and I carefully keep up that organization. If a staple is out of place, I’ll know. If the inventory gets messed up, I’ll know. I mean, I can’t really do anything besides complain about it, because I’m not the store owner, but I knew there was something going wrong.

So what gives? You think I would care about my living space more, right? Well, I think it has to do with a few different things. Firstly, I am more comfortable in my living space than at work. Less people to impress. That’s why any of us would. Secondly, I’ve lived here forever. FOR-EVER. I know every nook and cranny of this place, and so when you ask me where my copy of Hamlet is, I can tell you it is in stack one, versus when you ask where my copy of Beowulf is, I can tell you it is in stack two. At the store, if you ask me where something is, I have to go check to verify nobody else moved it before I tell you where it is, because working with co-workers is HARD (insert heavy sarcasm because it really isn’t difficult to work with co-workers as long as they just put things back and keep the room a little cleaner than before but NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO why would they do that. Ok, rant over).

Anyways, what do you think? Is your place spick and span, or do you have a well detailed map of the place in your head? Let me know!


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To Class

The crisscrossed brick walk

Is coated in shade, lightly

Spattered by sunbeams.


In Class

Quiet, happy cheers

Of the children running by

Seep through the windows


From Class

Oh, look at that sky!

Bluer than clear Po’ipu.

Now I miss the sand.


Walk Home

Two boys sit in cuffs

With bloodied lips and black eyes.

Look the other way.


Getting Inside

There’s a black widow

Tying a web on the key

I need to get in.



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Emblazoned, contemptuous, and enraged. The burning anger ignites like sparks for a wildfire. The yelling has stopped—I’ve even driven away, but the red in my cheeks couldn’t be more real. The pulse of bitter sadness and the beat of primal depression brush the needle edge of my consciousness, emboldening the fiery demon within to rear his ugly face; to take flight against friend and foe alike.

Of course, they’ll never see it. The waitress, the passersby. Friends and family, whores and ladies in kind. They all see the practiced mask of smiles, well worn by now, like a familiar pair of shoes. The unexpected cries of children, or the sudden guzzling of a motorcycle are the only moments where my armor cracks.

And yet, even now, they fade away. The fryers, the bustle of children, the lights and sounds and spirits all grow distant to the darkness inside my mind…

Is this why people shoot up schools?

The haunting image of my own tattered self lies dead before me. He’s gruff, bearded, and dirty, like the homeless man I saw off the freeway tonight. His jeans are shredded—not as a Hollister model’s, but as one lost, so worn dry that his bones stand out against his sunken skin, and the depths of his eyes hold an empty black void. A void filled with the same horror that lies within a black hole. His curly hair lies in shambles, down along his shoulder line, and his once proud, fat fingers are stretched boney and pale.

Of course, he is me, and I am him. I sit appalled, as this slump of a dead man sits across from me, his body listing weakly against the red and white diner booth. At once, I am filled with both disgust and jealousy. To die such a lonely, pathetic death.

And yet, to be freed from the world of lies, of pains, and of false smiles. I shift uncomfortably as the envy in me tries to win out. I think it will.

The hours have passed by. The heat of my anger has given way to the frost of my heart. Not the ice I instill on others. I cross my t’s and dot my i’s. I smile, and play along. But the frost bitten feeling within the carcass I inhabit. The chill I feel with each morning’s rise, and each evening’s fall. A familiar sting; one that I’ve made my own. But it is uncomfortable, nonetheless.

The limp returns. A phantom, not unlike my happiness, yet it seeps in to my life in ways the smiles don’t. It’s like an old friend come calling, sapping the life from me. He’s back again to tug at my will, to push me to give in; to bend me till I break.

Remind me again the need for faith and fitness, when we all will be buried in dirt just the same? Or burned, if we are lucky. Turned to trinkets our families can treasure for years to come.

My hand drifts absent-mindedly to my chest, adorned with my golden necklace.

Pages gone, scribbles, failed lines, cliché poems, broken stanzas; a myriad of simile and metaphor, and I am spent. Like the last dollar the single mother-stripper scrapes off the dance floor—too ashamed by the house lights to pick her head up. She fears the sting of her children’s stares.

Spent like the poor aching man, working two empty jobs so that his mother, wife, and children all have food on the table—though he himself is too weary to lift the spoon to his mouth.

Spent like the hearty teenage couple, after their first grip of ecstasy, when the reality sets in that the condom was broken.

Spent like the dimes clattering in the grizzled street musician’s guitar box. The hoots and hollers of drunkards make him wonder what good those years at Julliard did.

Spent like Dante, and Chaucer, and Shakespeare, whose pens all live despite their death. Yet we know not the men they were, just the pages they have left behind.

Pages, like the ones I’ve left you.



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A quick closing note. They say writing is an extension of self, and this is in no way inapplicable to this piece of work. However, you, the reader, should also recognize that this is a fragment of the emotions we all feel, which I have tried to capture as truly as I can. It does not reflect the day to day world I live in, or the feeling I am necessarily experiences at the time you read this. I could be at Disneyland for all you know! (Ok I mean I’m not but you get my point). Anyways, enjoy this, see the value it holds, and see what you can pull from it for your own well being. 🙂


I awoke up that morning aching and groggy. My eyes squinted against the morning sunlight. It was bright out, and likely hot—though the air conditioning of the apartment seemed to be doing its job. For once. I rolled over and stuck and arm out to turn on my lamp. My arm connected with an unknown object, which crashed onto the ground and shattered. The bottles. My eyes fluttered all the way open, and I sat up. The headache surged through my body, like a wave crashing on a beach. I had to furrow my brow to keep my eyes open. I steadied the remaining bottles on the nightstand, then carefully turned the lamp on. The dim light flooded the room. I had bought this lamp specifically because the light was soft enough to not blind me in a drunk stupor. I leaned over the side of the bed to look at the mess I had made

The bottle had shattered on the floor. The translucent brown pieces of glass glistened against the light. There were dozens of tiny pieces, and a few larger ones strewn about on the floor. Beneath them there was the slight residue of liquid from inside the bottle. I reached down, and picked up a small shard of glass no larger than my fingernail. I held it nimbly between my thumb and index finger, rolling it with the slightest pressure. How interesting that this shard could do so much damage to me, yet I held it at a knife’s edge between my fingers without the slightest fear.

My mind wandered as I spun the glass shard. The night before had been long and full of pain. I had started drinking as soon as I had gotten home. That morning—yesterday morning—I had woken up to an empty bed and a note on my dresser. “Goodbye Terrance” it read. I guess she had finally had it with me. The arguments rung in my head like church bells at noon.

“I didn’t fuck her!”

“You piece of shit you fucked her and you know it! Don’t fucking touch me!”

“You’re acting crazy again. If I’m being such an asshole maybe you should just leave!”

“Fine! Maybe I will!”

She had dug her nails into my arm that night till I bled. I spun the glass harder and harder against my skin as I thought about it. I had thrown her off of my, locked myself in our room, and gone to sleep. When she left, I went to work dazed and confused. The phone calls, the paper work, even the conversation with Lucy, the woman we had fought over, were all a blur. Her voice danced against my ears, the flirtatious whisper haunting me. I could still feel the sticky sweet vibrations against my ears; the scent of pink cotton candy perfume in the air.

But come nightfall only solitude was there to comfort me. I turned back to face the lamp on the other end of my bed. Dozens of bottles were stacked haphazardly on the table. I absentmindedly squeezed the glass shard harder as I looked over that side of the bed. More bottles, caught in stasis on their sides, as if they had rolled for miles to stop as they were. A wave of anger passed through my chest. This was all her fault, I thought to myself. Then pain erupted in my hand. I had squeezed the glass shard to tight, and it had burst through my skin. I dropped the piece in my other palm. The brown hue of the glass was stained against the heavy crimson of my blood. I looked back to my fingers, and watched as the pool of blood dripped down into my palm. I carefully removed myself from the bed, taking care not to step on the glass, and went to the bathroom to clean up my life.



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I construct the notes of my piano

To a song that I composed just for you.

It’s about the trips I took through the snow

To see that smoke rose from your chimney flue.

Your dainty footsteps across the wood floor

Are like an angel walking in the clouds

And the white smile you flash at the door

Is like the moonlight peeking from the shrouds.

But as my hands dance on the iv’ry keys

I feel the tune slip to C minor,

Because last winter I felt the sharp breeze

Of your voice calling to someone finer.

I saw your smile in that nirvana,

And hence I wrote this Moonlight Sonata.



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He’s riding the wind

On the backs of his people

Hoping to succeed.



Someone spilled the glue

And now the table is stuck.

Just like we all are.


The Office

“Please, DO THE MAIL,”

Read the orange sign at my desk

As the clock strikes ten.


Break Time!

The ducklings waddle.

They’re on their way to the pond

For a brief respite.


The Next Bill Gates

His shirt had a stain,

And his hair was in a mess,

Not fit for the job.


I got 99 problems, and they’re all bitches,

And I got a name, and I got a song.

And I got a dream. Oh, I got a dream

And they tell me lovin’ is what I got.

That I got a pocket full of sunshine.


But you know what? Ain’t none of that matter.

Because boy I will tell you what I got.


I got buried.

I got buried beneath their feet.

I got buried in all their shit.

I got buried by their smiles.

I got buried by their guile.


I got buried in all the pain.

All the love I tried to maintain.

I got buried because they called me kind,

But in the end they would pay me no mind.


The blood had pooled in the middle of the road, crawling slowly through the cracks around the body. The body, that of a young man aged 26, was sprawled out with his head slumped to the left. He was well dressed, in a black coat and a white button down shirt with thin blue stripes, stained crimson from his wounds. He must have been thrown out into the road quickly after his injuries occurred, because a thin spattering of blood led back to the sidewalk. It had occurred just in front of Auguste Rodin’s Hellfire Bar and Grill, at roughly 1:15 in the morning, based on the temperature of the body and the state of the blood.

It wasn’t until later that we found the knife. Or rather, parts of the knife, which appears to have been shattered by an unknown force (one theorist suggests that it was probably caused by a sudden change in temperature from extreme heat to extreme cold, though the cause for this occurrence is still uncertain, and has been rapidly dismissed as impossible). Unfortunately, even after reconstruction, the knife has given us little to no information on his death. It’s a short, thick blade, with a well worn handle, yet in spite of this there are no traces of fingerprints, DNA (aside from the victim’s blood), or even a brand name.

On the man’s person there was a wallet with no identification, credit card, or any other means to give a name to his person, though he bares a striking resemblance to Mihr, a man I knew in high school. Additionally, he was carrying an envelope that was curiously addressed to a location that does not exist with the simple message “RUN.” The confusing part was that the addressee was simply titled “All.” We have attempted to find someone by this name for follow up, but we were unable.

After attempting to view street cameras, it was discovered that power had gone out that night between the hours of 12:00 am and 2:00 am. No suspicious behavior exhibited in the hours leading up to and following the event, when footage is available. Police are still searching for any information on this occurrence. If you have any information, please do not hesitate to contact us. Additionally, it would be of great assistance for you to put the word out, as we know you have a great capacity to gather information. We are at a loss for where to go next.


~ letter addressed to the Chivant Bridge society



*This is fictional, please nobody freak out. Side note, there are 3 references in this, based on names. I recommend you puzzle your way through them. They will hopefully grant you a little more insight into the meaning.


Hello everyone,
Today I’ve been wandering around my thoughts uncertain what to talk about. So why not talk about that? I’m sure I’m not the only person who sometimes feels caught up in their own thoughts too much. For example, I sometimes question myself when deciding a topic for the blog, because it’s one I’ve talked about a lot. Look at how often I’ve discussed politics somewhat directly. That’s quite a bit. I talk even more about gender issues.

It can be really hard to not repeat myself. Or worse, feel like I am repeating myself. I mean, I can circularly talk all day about how women are mistreated, and how that mistreatment leads to the internalization of misogyny, and how that becomes a cycle of inequality. But that becomes stagnant over time. This happens in all kinds of writing. Just a few hours ago I was trying to come up with a premise for my next love poem. Obviously I (typically) write from my own perspective. I’m a heterosexual male. So in my poetry I often glorify (or demonize) female characters. But that sometimes feels worn out. Like seriously, how many poems have you heard about a guy who loves a girl.

To over come this I do one of two things. First, I’ll try to write about something else. Something not remotely related to the subject or style. Non-fiction prose is often a good way to do this for me. I mean, it’s what I do most of the time on my blog. The second way to break your writer’s block is to write the same thing differently. For example, since I am having some trouble writing from my normal perspective of a love poem, maybe I should try a different one. Maybe I should try writing from the perspective of a heterosexual woman, or from a homosexual person. Maybe I shouldn’t write about romantic love, but another kind of love. Like the love of a sibling, or a friend.

Of course, this can be difficult. Writing from the perspective of a homosexual male can create other problems. Say my “perspective” is latently bigoted. Say some stereotype I have about homosexual males slips through unintentionally. Say I use a perspective I believe to be true, but is not completely accurate. Suddenly I may ostracize someone. Of course, this can happen from my normal perspective as well, but to me that is more understandable, because the misunderstanding of someone outside a specific in group is more comprehensible than someone making an error and trying to play it off as real. Neither are acceptable, but one is simply a lack of knowledge and can be corrected, while the other is bigoted.

Anywho, writer’s block is difficult, especially with work you plan to publish. That said, I hope these methods I have may assist you! Try one out and let me know what you think! Or if you have any ways to break through the wall, tell me so I can try them!


Hello everyone,


Wow, I am not feeling very well today. I think I’m on the border of either being sick or being well enough to show up to work. But here I am typing away regardless. Being sick is one of those things where it is sometimes hard to tell whether or not its good to just lay down and recoup or to go out and do something to take your mind off of it.

My dad used to make me exercise through nearly every illness, because, for whatever reason, he thought it would help me get through anything. Which, to be fair, he was right about. In any situation where my body had a fever, exercise would help because the same process of raising the body’s temperature would occur after running for long enough. Which is brilliant. Of course, there were other illnesses that I had in which it did practically nothing to whatever sickness I had, and instead I was just miserable for several hours. I don’t recall ever feeling worse, though I did have a sickness at one point in which there was so much phlegm built up in my chest that I had trouble breathing, and when I was forced to “play through it” I ended up playing without much breath. Which was absolutely the worst.

That being said, it taught me a lot about overcoming mental blocks. It also got my in a rhythm to challenge myself even when I was feeling unwell. Of course, this does come with it’s drawbacks. For example, when I have been really sick and probably should not have done anything except for sleep, I have often gotten out of bed and done things. Today is quite possibly one of those days.

Lately, I have not been functioning too well. My mind has been tired, my eyes have been tired, and every time I get out of bed I feel light headed. And it’s partially my fault because I stay up too late sometimes, though I also have the issue that when I take naps I end up sleeping for too long, which means I either don’t take a nap and am tired all night, or take a nap and I am for sure up too late, and don’t get a full night’s sleep. Perhaps I should be trying to get to sleep earlier. But there’s so little time in the day to do it all. If I go to sleep earlier, then I lose the opportunity to experience the things I enjoy as much.

Of course, it could very much be the fact that I am not getting enough sleep nowadays and that my body has left me sick. In which case it is self-inflicted. What do you think? Let me know in the comments!