Clumsily I fall in love with you
Hopefully you’ll love me too
Breathless I am waiting
Nervous I am shaking
When will you tell me
You and I shall be


Being an artist

There is something beautiful about being an artist; something that cannot easily be conveyed to someone who isn’t an artist. We are all creators; that is a fact. We all dream. But an artist is a walking dream. They live within the depths of their imagination.The world speaks to them in a language only they can hear, and if they are lucky they can translate it for others to interpret. Whether their tool is a paintbrush, a camera, an instrument or words they have the ability to make what is ordinary, extraordinary. They constantly occupy two worlds: yours and their own. And this threesome with reality and fantasy makes them an arousing and beautiful group to observe. If you cannot become one, befriend one…you won’t regret it.


The Spell of Living


He was melancholy and madness; a walking twisted fairy tale.

You couldn’t take your eyes off him; he was a fascinating male.

But he was tormented by the infinite days before him.

The thought of living forever made him feel quite grim.

How does one cherish life if it goes on without end?

Another day on earth he’d rather not spend.

He was a hunter of souls and gave his own to be

But now he’d give every soul to simply be free

1000 years is too long to see the sun rise

This spell of living would be his demise

“Nothing lasts forever” no longer seemed to be true

For he was locked to living no matter how old he grew

From autumn to summer and back again

He was slowly going more insane

His beauty was divine; you could look at him for hours

He had a voice as sweet as soft summer showers

Boredom is a misery even for the beautiful

Having nothing to do can make one hateful

As he collected souls of the dearly departed

He became more resentful and dark hearted

“Soon there will be no one alive but me!”

He said rather bitterly

“Ah, but I could keep them alive forever,” he thought

Then they would live forever while their minds rot

The Gods were not pleased with his new plan

And warned him that he’d be banished from the land

“Banished?” He asked. “What does that mean?”

“You’ll be taken to a place where you’ll never be seen.”

“I’d rather be invisible than to live this life I dread.”

“Then you won’t mind if you’re dead.”

The man smiled, “kill me if you dare.”

And the Gods destroyed him without a care.

She knew they would not care

She was sweetness and laughter, brought up to be good.

Her hair tied with silk ribbons; she did the best she could.

She was their favourite little dolly. She was bright and she was fair.

Not a word of misery was spoken. She knew they wouldn’t care.

Her friends thought she was perfect. Oh how how lovely her life must be.

gothintreeThey never thought they’d see her… hanging from a tree.

I’ve wished on every star


I’ve thought about you everyday

You won’t leave me

But I’m tired of feeling this way

I’ve wished on every star

If it comes true

You won’t seem so far

I think I might go insane

It’s been so long

When will I see you again

Flying before the fall


I am doing everything that makes me suffer but I’m doing them with irrepressible glee, like falling in love for the first time and knowing undoubtedly that you will get your heart broken. You plummet 9 stories down knowing the shatter of all your pieces will be too painful to bare but before the crash, it all just feels like your flying. I’m going from day to day on air, made of acid clouds. They burn me, but they keep me high. Sometimes what kills you can make you feel so alive, or a least remind that you were once alive, and living. Not just in flesh but in spirit.

Is there a form of happiness that costs nothing? Can we live without consequence? I have not found it to be so yet. The hangover of happiness is worse than death but it cannot detract from the fact that there was happiness. At one point, you were happy. It is important to remember this because when the crash comes, when the pains of life seeps so deep you can’t feel anything else you must shift through all the sorrow and find that moment where you were flying, unafraid, happy, and know that it can be that way again.

Frightens me

Everything frightens me these days. Everything. Breathing, not breathing. Sleeping, not sleeping. Everything is a dream woven into a nightmare.

My mind is devouring and being devoured by all that is near. It is too much. There is too much happiness. There is too much pain. It is all too much and it frightens me.

I am both king and servant in this court. I can rule and be ruled. I have all the power and it makes me powerless for it is all so frightening.

No one speaks of calm adventures. They only talk of ones that can leave your heart chard. I want to live. But life is frighting. Everything is frighting. atumblrimage

Calling all writers

One of my new year’s goals is to read works from new authors, lesser known authors, or even yet to be published writers. I love discovering new favorite authors that aren’t known to the general public or writing world. Each month, I’d like to invest in a new writer and review their work on my blog. This is a little easier said than done. I didn’t realize how hard it is find “underground” writers. Google searches usually turn up rather mainstream books and authors, or I’m finding myself on sites that seem to have been abandoned. Hence the reason for this post. If you are a writer, and would like to have your book or even writing blog reviewed please leave a comment down below and I’ll try to add it to the list.

I’m not a book critic, nor am I trying to become one. I simply remember stumbling across a writer’s blog that was very much unknown and falling in love with the author’s works. The feeling of finding something, and becoming a fan is like a high you don’t want to descend from.

Poems, short stories, novels, daily musing, even how to books– if you wrote it I’d like to read it. And yes, I will be purchasing works if they intrigue me. Writing is a business as much as an art. I think it’s important that writers be invested in. It’s all fine and well to visit blogs, but if you can, buy a book.

With that said, leave comments below if you have a piece that you’d like to share with me.


winter blues



Insensitive streaks of snowflakes slide down onto the sill.

They prolong my longing, test my patience and my will.

Slowly down the window they remind me it’s winter still

These chilly winter blues can’t be cured with any pill