The Question of Perception


Maybe it’s all just an illusion–
A facade set up
for my eyes, solely
and when I turn away,
everything changes,
everything transforms itself.
It molds and configures,
it adjusts and adapts
to accommodate
the next viewer.

Maybe the world isn’t composed
of what we choose to see,
but what chooses to be seen.
Do we hold the controls
of our own perception,
or is it guided
by everything around us?

If so, what happens
when no one’s looking?

I Hope It Rains On New Year’s


I hope it rains on New Year’s
to muddy the ground
that I’ve been treading,
forcing me to create new paths
and to leave what once was,
stuck in the past.

I want to hear the sounds
of beads trampling on the roof
as we count down to midnight,
each second, each moment,
renewed by the drops,
washing away the pain,
regrets, mistakes,
and heartbreak
of the year before
and remove the stains
on my heart.

I hope it rains on New Year’s
so I can be refreshed
and my life can bloom
as bright as I plan
in the year to come.

Fallen Angels

Monsters like werewolves, goblins, and vampires
are all too fabricated and embedded
with lies, fantasy, and fiction
to offer me anything
other than momentary entertainment.
But demons–
those once-angels of God,
who fell, ashen and decayed,
and transformed
from an ideal of beauty
to a thing of disgrace,
who lost their vibracy,
their light–
they are the monsters
I can’t escape from.

Because of their choices,
dark wishes, and desires,
those once so vivid,
so loved and adored
are now feared,
hated, and abhorred.

There’s a fine line
between innocence and sin,
and once you’re standing
on the border,
you never know which way
you may fall.

I have a Q&A on my instagram where I write poems based on questions readers ask. The the question for this was: “what is your favorite monster or demon from literary tradition?”

If you would like to ask me a question about myself, writing, life, anything really, just comment below. I will write a poem to answer your question!



I hear the clattering
as it ricochets from the surfaces
it chooses to touch.
It pools and puddles,
then rises, and
once more, cycling
through time and through nature,
breaking apart,
then gathering together,
providing peace through its sounds
of continuous clamor.

Just a quick little poem about rain. I haven’t had much time to write lately, hopefully I’ll be able to get something up that I have more time to work on soon.

Overcome Writer’s Block

It stands guard against your half-engaged brain,
blocking the thoughts -the emotion-
from pouring from your mind,
through your heart, and to the tips
of your fingers for you to spill
onto the page.
To battle the warden of your words,
search for inspiration
in the crevices of monotony, of routine
and discover the beauty
in the every day.
Read of the places
others have traveled to,
escaped from,
or dreamed of.
Study their ventures,
their quests, and goals.
Endure their heartbreak,
their elation, and confusion.
Look into their words
and uncover your own.

I have a Q&A on my instagram where I write poems based on questions readers ask. The first question I tackled was how I overcome writers block.

If you would like to ask me a question about myself, writing, life, anything really, just comment below. I will write a poem to answer your question!

My Gnawed Core

I haven’t learned
why my soul has yet
to bare its pearly bone
outwards; instead, it turns
toward me and grins,
exposing the jagged
white stones which threaten
to gnaw at my core.
They gnash and grind
against themselves
as the dull sounds
grate inside of me.

A short poem that I havent decided if I want to add to, or leave as-is. Let me know what you think!

Paper Life


She said her world
was made of paper–
that it was carelessly ripped
and torn out of the book
she once held so dearly.
Now, this piece of paper,
etched with years
of milestones
and meaningless moments,
is crumpled up
and has been tossed away
without a followed thought.
She said her world
was made of paper–
that each memory
left a permanent scar
on something entirely

Vaulted Remains


I keep revisiting that old cellar—
where all of the lost have been locked.

The dark, dingy space encapsulated them,
sealing them away from the outside world.

I’ve heard their screams—their cries
for sanctuary, for sanity.

Lunacy devoured their minds, leaving nothing
but ravaged carcasses and hollowed bones in its wake.

Now it gnaws at their conscious thoughts
and gnashes its vile, septic teeth in their desolate faces.

I fear traveling those fragmented bones
of splintered wood and hearing its creaking—its moaning

as I take each petrified step
down the skeleton stairs.

Besmirched hands grab at my ankles
behind every board, vying to pull me under.

I clench to the frail railing
and battle the fetid fingers that scrape at my taluses.

They yearn for the flesh, for the blood,
for the body. They ache for a vessel

to carry them out of the crypt.
And I offer them, only, that want.

I keep revisiting that old cellar—
to reminisce on the desires

that almost took hold of me.

It Isn’t Introversion

It’s not nerves
or a fearful reluctance.
I’m not quiet,
backwards, or shy.
Strangers have exhausted
these terms they so often
use to describe me,
but these words
in no way define me.

I’ve never held my thoughts
close or kept my opinions
to myself.
I choose to listen,
to understand,
and to consider them,
their stories, their wishes,
their hopes and dreams
I express mine.

I choose to care about you
before I speak out.
Why can’t everyone else care
before they speak about me?