I wish I could express myself

As if nobody else was here to witness

And if there was

I wouldn’t care what the heckeroo they think

About me

Because I’m not scared

Or afraid if the eyes

that find me

Will judge and misunderstand

But if I’m being honest

I honestly feel like

I’m terrified of being myself.

Keeping it going.

I’m ready to write that haiku

I’m ready to write that essay

I’m ready to write about my day

I’m ready to write what i can’t say

I’m ready to write whatever comes to my head

I’m ready to write like I never left

I’m ready to write when I’m doing well

I’m ready to write when I feel unwell

I’m ready to write to feel powerful

I’m ready to write to feel vulnerable

I’m ready to write except when I’m blank as hell

I guess then ,

I’ll just read other people’s shit.


Sometimes I hate what I write

How I write it

And why I write it

I tear myself apart about it

I analyze

I judge

I despise

I erase it

Too many mistakes .

Sometimes I love what I read

How I perceive it

How I relate

The feelings it ignites

The thrill

The rush

The humor

And the total trust of a strangers words

I admire it

I envy

I bask in it

My God

What a price to pay for expression.

Chapter Me.

I’d like to believe that I’m an open book

Until you find the pieces of pages I’ve sealed shut with super glue.If you find yourself curious enough to try to pry them open.


Move on to the next pages where I express why I simply could not let you do it.You may find some clarity there.

I will try my best to reduce the level of vagueness so keep an open mind and try to read between the lines.If you are as curious about me as I am about you;you will come to understand my language and get the gist of what I have failed to convey.

I’m talking mind reading.

These pages..they will be hard to read,at some point you may even wish to discontinue reading but I do hope that like Samwise Gamgee you will have the audacity to follow me to the ends of the earth,to Mordor.Just to see how the story ends.I will not dare promise you anything, I love my happy endings though.Frodo Baggins made sure that I do.Afterall..

You will come to know that I have a passion for everything I care about coated underneath the

impulsiveness ,


Procrastination and self-doubt.

I have ideas,i will create things then become my own critic

I will occasionally succumb to my own hopes and fears.The toxicity of it all will open its jaws wide and swallow me whole.

You will also come to understand that I can also be the opposite of all these things.They are simply the sadder parts of myself.I hope you stay long enough for all the best parts.

What about the girls? Hi

Yeah I wrote about the boys.

I got feedback from those who’ve honored me by giving it a read.Some are mad thinking I inadvertently roasted the menfolk while writing about that,frankly I had a certain demography in mind I wanted to highlight so I may have perhaps added some feeling from personal experiences .Others had disagreed letting me know they are indeed different.

And the rest were ..well,merely amused and or curious

They asked me what about the girls,the girls in my world.

What About the girls in my world??

I must admit,its taking me a while to get into it.To (summarise) a general concept of the flaws of my own flock,there are certain truths I have never wanted to *come to terms with* that sadly, I must come to terms with.The girls in my world are a reflection of myself and we all know how ugly things can really get.

I cannot begin to write about The girls in my world without writing about myself.

My stories must first come from somewhere within me,at least i get to choose the space simply because I am also a procrastinator and im always almost missing timing ,details and deadlines by a hair,

Haha I’m just kidding ,time has nothing to a do with the girls in my friggin’’s completely irrelevant to the topic.

As unappealing and yet still…cute as the insecurities these creatures are prone to,I can imagine irrational tears,fears and exceptional at pettiness they are ;the girls in my world.Who else to deal with all that than these poor sweet boys

Oh ye of little faith,

The children of satan must be fed.

Dø I häve tò bê sÃD?

Isnt it tiring
When nothing is inspiring
Im getting stuck alot
Like there’s a snag somewhere-maybe in my wiring
I close my eyes trying to think of something
I count and hold my breath
Inhale, exhale, nothing.
Dyu think im spiralling?
How often do people see through a happy face?
Do i have to be sad to find my happy place?
You could try give me your whole world
And it still wouldnt be enough space
Maybe i didnt set the right pace
Maybe i should be walking slow & taking it the same.


He missed sitting on his desk alone at the back heedy from a creative trip,thats the only way he could explain that particular experience
And for however long it took,could be a month,a few days or 5 minutes – he would be consumed by an idea so much so he would follow it through building it,expanding it,exploiting and twisting it to fit a bigger purpose.
He would tear the paper with words sharpened from days filled with homesickness,frustration and anger added with a copious amount of libido just waiting for some kind of release.No
not that kind of release.
Said release came in form of rhythm and poetry.Sometimes it would be a mixture of both.

He wrote with the feverish manner of a mad scientist,mumbling and nodding his head while he hummed a couple freestyle verses while playing a tune that he came up with from somewhere in the many folds of his mind more often than not,he would also play an instrument to accompany it.
Nobody would be there to witness this for another few years to come – running across his face would be emotions he had struggled to conceal.I guess as he wrote his music he completely gave into himself; in a studio with his boys,his equipment,his words,his voice and his ganja.But even with all that it was never about him,he made his art for the world-saying he was only a vessel meant to pass on a message.
Of all the times to remember he recalled knowing whatever he was writing would be banging in his classmates heads for days to come because it just simply slapped that hard…yeah this could definately be a hit.

For soul as talented as that he didn’t consider himself not too popular even though he fairly stood slightly apart from the rest of the hoard.
He considered other peoples lives more interesting ,like his best friend who’s politically driven family was more mafia than the mafia or his other friend who was effortlessly charming he always had something to say,his wit and pun game too strong it got them reluctant admiration from the deputy principal.Who by the way studiously avoided being on any agreeing terms with any of the students that didn’t end up with someone being punished.
He also knew that that was only a front.
A jokers’ bane of existence is his depression.
The world is a tragedy and humor is a coping strategy.
Nostalgia hit as he reminisced back when he stood in line with his shirt semi-tucked,thoughts of a lesson he wished he could duck and a biology assignment that was due-lord he was so fucked.
A girl he liked way too much and his homies endless taunts when he wrote romantic stuff.
Someone copying his english homework,another one paying him to write a love letter to his crush,getting caught sleeping during a history paper and ulitimately becoming a trendsetter.

If it’s not too awkward

You are the type to tilt to only one side of these weights
I mean With all those emotions
Playing on a beautiful surface
I remember lying down and thinking
I cant wait to write songs about that face
And wonder why it didn’t work out

I know Its getting late
I should probably go home
My mom’s blowing up my phone
Ive got a curfew @ eight

So i haven’t seen you in a while
Yet we’ve just met now
nothing awkward about that
You break the ice and we’re cool
But only for a little while until the silence.
It creeps in and i start thinking
I wonder if im still bothered by the thoughts if you

If its not too awkward
Take me to my bus stop
Maybe we just might do this again
I guess we’ll just pick it up
From where we left it the last time
‘The last time’
I told myself a hundred times