The canoe

a man gets a 3-meter canoe,

he sits in the canoe.

looking at the mahogany,

coverings of the canoe

he ponders in the canoe

and as he ponders in the canoe he finds himself a good view.

The canoe simmers

Gently swatting the frolicking waves

Languidly idling on the lake

Until the waters become opaque

A woman approaches the canoe.

Sitting there until she grew,

Closer to the man

Like flowers blooming in a plant.

The pink wisterias frolicking

Even the ladybirds with even dots polishing,

The lilypads.

As the man and women astonished the view

However, the woman leaves.

the man estranged.

the canoe     bangs on the benthic zone.

as a hole gobbles     up the lake,

the man      patches the canoe

but to no avail

and perishines to takotsubo cardiomyopathy.

A pomegranate’s retrograde

A lone pomegranate hung from the tree,

Sitting in a barren garden,

Blanketed by dollops of vultures,


As the vines slowly thin

Thins and thins

Until its diameter is


1.3 mm



It ebbs,

Shrivels, even

Wrinkly like



For it’s



River Styx.

And as it falls

And falls

Falls further

And further

an ode to the numbers i hate


I hate numbers.

From the twelve to the eleven,

the ten to the nine.

Invaluable little riff-raffs they are, rooted in destruction.

Insolent, imaginary, insignificant scribbles.

The bourgeoisie fight over these,

From the hardheaded to the sharp.

The chokehold they have on us,

should be prohibited.

Insolent, imaginary, insignificant scribbles.

But between the eight, billion inhabitants on this planet

Across the seven, seas blanketing our terrain,

We may notice that,

These numbers seem to encapsulate us,

ensnaring us within six fragile bubbles.

And although this may seem, child, intolerable,

Soon you will see, such discoveries, intricacies

Between the five and the four,

The parallels and more,

The four and three,

That may foresee,

The webbed nature of rounded commonalities,

From your neighbor’s minuscule ball,

To the possible crater in Nepal.

Although my time, may not be as long as Pi,

It will be long enough, for 2 and i.

I want to eat cake

Mother, I want cake.

Said the young boy,

Unbeknownst however

The details in which,

Constructing the cake.

Firstly, The mother, out of the picture,

Would have had to come back

Into the picture.

Next, the mother would then,

Need to procure the flower,

Shortening, eggs and sweetness.

However constructing the cake,

was not an easy task for one

Without the milk.

Easier said than done.

The cake, incomplete

Hard, battered, and dense

Without the milk,

Taken by her counterpart, in a sense

The milk returns,

After it discerns,

The appearance of the counterpart,

Starts to mellow,

And rot.

Now young boy,

The cake won’t be made,

Nor will the picture parade.

Rest easy however,

For we will provide you with a tart,

Similar to the cake.


A small girl pondered,

Outside the glass, like an angel.

Looking down, growing fonder by the day,

As the jellyfish bloomed away.

The pirouette-like movements

As the jellyfish danced within their glass cage

As their translucent bodies balletically flew, much to her amusement

As if they were on a gargantuan stage.

Their tentacles, three centimeters in length,

Weaving through the water,

Sifting through the sand

Like stars navigating space.

Their minuscule bodies appear to be a harbinger of light,

With their gentle spasms, and their pearly overcoats

And much to the young girl’s delight,

The jellyfish sparkled, unprovoked.

The soft saunters lulled the girl into a trance

As she stood there, waiting for them to prance.

Untitled Document

so many souls wander upon this earth,

filled with bore and lackluster.

their eyes voided and their hearts solidified.

so many concrete buildings filled with corporate grey,

so many one-sided streets enveloped in concrete,

so many concrete nightlights shrouded in a shade of specter-grey.

even the dogs I encountered are colored in a somber, concrete-like grey.

every day begins with an alarm,

at 7 am sharp,

and ends at 11 pm sharp.

and while what people do within the day differs,

their experience, people, breakfast, and dinner,

at the end of the day, we all return somewhere,

to wind down and restart our processes.

deep down I think our experiences are collective,

as if there is no individuality.

from the same artists we listen to,

to the same clothes we wear

and the same produce we consume

there is no difference.

So while there is no difference,

It is possible to conjure difference,

But the possibility in which we will see the difference,

Is very low.

As low as the chance of us seeing whales grow legs.


She takes my little hand,

Drags me through the dark graveyard,

Of living people.


If you find yourself

Deep in the macrocosm of life

Let yourself slip further inside

For dancing on wires

Is not the most reliable solution

As you are sauntering

And you may fall.

So take the risk, child

Skipping on ropes will not suffice

If you want to find

the chest inside the well

Do not fret, don't doubt

For the things inside the well

Will surely prevail.

a general envy

I want to be as pretty as her

I want the same eyes,

The same hair,

The same lipstick,

In the same shade.

I want the same clothes,

The same style,

The same frilly dress she wears every day,

To work.

I admire the way she walks,

The way she talks,

The way she elevates the room,

And illuminates the room,

Painting its walls in different shades of pink,

From a shimmery rose to a solid burgundy.

But despite purchasing the same lipstick,

And the same old frilly dress,

I cannot become her.

For as long as the dandelions dance,

And the trees gleam in a copper trance,

She will be she and I will stay me.


Imagine the simplicity of walking sideways,

You would only have to consider one path,

Forever crawling sideways, like crabs.

Instead, however, you are forced to look in all directions,

As if you were ensnared in a busy crosswalk,

Worried that cars that may hit you, and people that may punch you.

You could be sideways on a beach,

Crawling and crawling,

Free from the stress and anxiety found within crosswalks.

The changing of seasons

I watch the leaves fall,

Then regain their leaves,

Then fall again,

As countless leaves fall throughout the years.

The birds disappear,

Then reappear.

The squirrels disappear,

Then reappear again.

The people retreat,

To the comfort of the fireplace,

When the leaves fall and the birds disappear.

But what comfort is there in a

Measly wooden structure?

Besides the supposed warmth,

Felt by a single soul, in a barren, chilling house.

I like watching the leaves wither and fall,

Like how night turns into day,

And seeing how brightly the eightball,

Glows in the middle of the night,

When one year turns to the next,

And suddenly you find yourself in a plight,

As you find yourself, a decade older.

girls yearn for scientific discoveries

Imagine if the apple,

Didn’t fall from the tree.

Maybe Newton wouldn't have dabbled,

In gravity.

Imagine if the birds,

All ran away from Darwin,

Maybe he wouldn't have returned,

With such groundbreaking jargon.

If only, however, I could just,

Figure out what I wanted to do,

Whether it be to fly to the moon, robust,

Or to discover walking sharks, anew.

I would feel contempt


The end of a decade, the start of a century.

I don’t want to write

But I shall continue writing

To keep the art alive