Tuesday, September 20, 2011


Broken roses and black tuxedos, that’s how you are leaving me. Inside your oak box your bed for the forever. Leaving only your smell - in a bottle. They keep saying you’re in a better place but I know that it’s not true.

How can six feet underground be better?

Monday, September 5, 2011


I know how selfish it may sound, however I just wish that the world could stop while I'm bleeding. I know how blind it is – peddling. Although it’s what I wish when I close my eyes and try to hear my own heartbeat but whenever I try it, I only hear the mess inside my head and that’s how I keep getting lost, again and again. Blurred. Mismatched.

I can’t truth my silence because it isn’t soundless, it’s voiced in ludic voices, lost, jumbled and mutilated. Solid, firm and flowing, abstracts.