In the

In The

In the recesses of my mind, I think about you.
Not once, or twice. Multiple times.
In the vague moments before sleep, I dream about you.
The prodding of dreams tell the truth.
In the spaces of my heartbeats, I miss you more.
The palpitations tell me that I am incomplete.
In the pauses between my breathing, I love you.
Then it resumes, and I am once more normal.
(50 second poetry: yep, it is probably poorly written because it took me less than a minute to write it)

This is how…

This is how I learn to be independent
In the accumulated moments that you didn’t care.

This is how I grow used to isolation
When I don’t have you around for company.

This is how I grew up
When I call and the dial tone rings then dies

This is how much I need you
And only to realize that you don’t need me back.

This is how I stopped believing,
When promises are mere words spoken and forgotten.

This is how I forget,
When there is nothing enough to remember.

This is how we all fall apart,
When I am always here but you are never there.

We Can Be

[We Can Be]

We can be blind, eyes open but unseeing.
We can be deaf, aware but not heeding.
A little part of us is biased,
A little more afraid, we realized,
things don’t always go as we say.

Far too often, I witness without seeing,
blinded by my own doubts and perhaps even —
Too worried to ask, far too afraid to have my
deepest doubts proven. Right.

We can be writers, each portraying our own
fashioned after people we think we know.
We can imagine too much, and know too little.
We can be far too creative and way too unrealistic.

We need to wake up earlier,
look out of our own world more often, and for once,
not fantasize but understand.
Bleak skies, black diamonds, queen of hearts
A scene of dark, sinful black.

Far too often, we stare at crows and wonder,
“Thou ugly beasts! Foulest creatures!”
And even more common is for us to forget,
that the crow had never wanted to be black.
We can be darker than the darkest shade of crow feathers.

Trees Bleed

Trees Bleed

I suppose you never knew this,
but trees bleed,
And all their hurt, you cannot see.
Because outside, trees are silent, brave and stoic

I once saw a bleeding tree,
with it bark torn deep,
I caressed its wound and could –
almost hear it weep.

I sat beside that tree,
whom is thought by the world could never hurt.
For they in their blindness,
pompously assume- what does not show, does not feel.

I pitied the tree,
for in its silence, I saw a semblance of me.
Perhaps once, the tree had laughed and sung and cried,
But then lies were breathed; knives drawn, trunks hacked.

Perhaps then, the tree folded itself
into its realm of silence: still, gaunt, unmoving;
ostensibly strong against the lashing storm,
an emblem of strength and tenacity.

Me and my tree, we sat like past and present,
on the edge of the hubbub of everything,
overlooking serpentine crowds, hidden daggers and sweet poison,
branch in hand, both incarcerated by a distant pain.

Woman Work by Maya Angelou

Woman Work

I‘ve got the children to tend

The clothes to mend

The floor to mop

The food to shop

Then the chicken to fry

The baby to dry

I got company to feed

The garden to weed

I’ve got shirts to press

The tots to dress

The can to be cut

I gotta clean up this hut

Then see about the sick

And the cotton to pick.

Shine on me, sunshine

Rain on me, rain

Fall softly, dewdrops

And cool my brow again.

Storm, blow me from here

With your fiercest wind

Let me float across the sky

‘Til I can rest again.

Fall gently, snowflakes

Cover me with white

Cold icy kisses and

Let me rest tonight.

Sun, rain, curving sky

Mountain, oceans, leaf and stone

Star shine, moon glow

You’re all that I can call my own. 



So close to opening, so close to accepting.
So close to trusting, so close to believing.
A tiny step, a baby step,
reaching shakily for support.
I thought I could trust again.

Too close to liking, too close to relying.
Too close to realizing that I was too close to hurting.
Hasty steps back,
I am withdrawn again.
The opening door closed again.

I am now more wary,
I am now more jaded,
I am now more doubtful,
I am now more cold as they like to call me.
But remember, I was that close to embracing,
But before that I was hurt again.

If I Could Name My Pain

If I Could Name My Pain
If I could put a name to my pain,
and compare its beauty to the stark white skies
and the blue phantoms of the sea,
I would.
If I could portend my fate before all is too late, 
and unwind time over and over to relive the moment
where we fell together like two particles in the universe,
I would.
If somehow the sky is red and the earth is sqaure,
and that we could unknowingly fall off its edge,
but I would assume that the universe is limited and
I would find you.
If somehow fate has other plans for us,
and if destiny are to tear us apart,
and we are robbed of our “happily-ever-after”,
I would seek you, hold you, and rewrite the tale.
If somehow I should be forced to leave you,
and if our frail human minds deteriorate with the passing of time,
and if you have already forgotten me like how I will never forget you,
I would be in pain, yet I would rest in peace too.


The Sky Beyond


They rose like giants
each a hundred feet tall
or more

They stretched on infinitely
like gloom solidified,
an impenetrable fortress.
Protecting or limiting?

These walls!
I could barely scale them to
glimpse at the frail blue sky.
I slipped, far too often.

A hand raised,
reaching for the heavens
that I could see but cannot reach.
My palm covers the beauty of the sky.

Someday I climbed,
and my trembling hand
caressed the blue silk.
It was cold.

Last Verse of Grief

Last Verse of Grief
[Original Poem on Live & Dictate]

For years now, I have walked
Aimlessly, in the dark, dingy abyss
that you and I called “home”.
I stumbled, tripped and fell
There were no hands to hold me up.

I grieved, oh,  how I grieved.

Ever sat by the window and wondered
for hours at an end,
that if things would have been better
if I had not been me?
I had no answers for it. Just guesses.

I grieved, still, I grieved.

Every sunset I spent,
Watching silhouettes of the birds
against the dimming, fiery sky; returning home
As the last inch of sun fell with my heart
I turned and questioned, “Where is my home?”

The grief of mine, it knew no bounds.

The same creaking window, the same dimming sky,
The ever changing birds, the ever ticking time
washed away the last remnants of a childhood
that I rather not remember.
I looked back on me and think, “That’s not me.”

Oh, but the grief, it escalates as I seem to fall back in time.

But no. I am me no longer,
I have grown up, grown stronger.
No one can hurt me now.
The memories to me feel like I was watching
the painful, horror-filled life of someone else.

I have to reconcile with myself.

So this is the last verse,
The very last verse of grief,
of unspeakable, immense, unimaginable pain
that had almost driven me insane.
But my wounds close, as this last verse falls.

My last verse of grief, dedicated to a once-grieving me.

To This Day by Shane Koyczan

Today I found the most inspirational poem ever, and I urge everyone of you to listen to it, the audio one with fantastic animation. I fell in love with this guy and his voice, and his courage to speak up, his courage to care.

Poem is taken from, please do take a moment to check it out and support!

The animation can be found here:

It is a really amazing animation with a really flawless voice over, and I promise that you will not waste your 7minutes 37 seconds listening and watching it!

Like Shane Koyczan’s page here:

To This Day by Shane Koyczan

To This Day
When I was a kid
I used to think that pork chops and karate chops
were the same thing
I thought they were both pork chops
and because my grandmother thought it was cute
and because they were my favourite
she let me keep doing it

not really a big deal

one day
before I realized fat kids are not designed to climb trees
I fell out of a tree
and bruised the right side of my body

I didn’t want to tell my grandmother about it
because I was afraid I’d get in trouble
for playing somewhere that I shouldn’t have been

a few days later the gym teacher noticed the bruise
and I got sent to the principal’s office
from there I was sent to another small room
with a really nice lady
who asked me all kinds of questions
about my life at home

I saw no reason to lie
as far as I was concerned
life was pretty good
I told her “whenever I’m sad
my grandmother gives me karate chops”

this led to a full scale investigation
and I was removed from the house for three days
until they finally decided to ask how I got the bruises

news of this silly little story quickly spread through the school
and I earned my first nickname

pork chop

to this day
I hate pork chops

I’m not the only kid
who grew up this way
surrounded by people who used to say
that rhyme about sticks and stones
as if broken bones
hurt more than the names we got called
and we got called them all
so we grew up believing no one
would ever fall in love with us
that we’d be lonely forever
that we’d never meet someone
to make us feel like the sun
was something they built for us
in their tool shed
so broken heart strings bled the blues
as we tried to empty ourselves
so we would feel nothing
don’t tell me that hurts less than a broken bone
that an ingrown life
is something surgeons can cut away
that there’s no way for it to metastasize

it does

she was eight years old
our first day of grade three
when she got called ugly
we both got moved to the back of the class
so we would stop get bombarded by spit balls
but the school halls were a battleground
where we found ourselves outnumbered day after wretched day
we used to stay inside for recess
because outside was worse
outside we’d have to rehearse running away
or learn to stay still like statues giving no clues that we were there
in grade five they taped a sign to her desk
that read beware of dog

to this day
despite a loving husband
she doesn’t think she’s beautiful
because of a birthmark
that takes up a little less than half of her face
kids used to say she looks like a wrong answer
that someone tried to erase
but couldn’t quite get the job done
and they’ll never understand
that she’s raising two kids
whose definition of beauty
begins with the word mom
because they see her heart
before they see her skin
that she’s only ever always been amazing

was a broken branch
grafted onto a different family tree
but not because his parents opted for a different destiny
he was three when he became a mixed drink
of one part left alone
and two parts tragedy
started therapy in 8th grade
had a personality made up of tests and pills
lived like the uphills were mountains
and the downhills were cliffs
four fifths suicidal
a tidal wave of anti depressants
and an adolescence of being called popper
one part because of the pills
and ninety nine parts because of the cruelty
he tried to kill himself in grade ten
when a kid who still had his mom and dad
had the audacity to tell him “get over it” as if depression
is something that can be remedied
by any of the contents found in a first aid kit

to this day
he is a stick on TNT lit from both ends
could describe to you in detail the way the sky bends
in the moments before it’s about to fall
and despite an army of friends
who all call him an inspiration
he remains a conversation piece between people
who can’t understand
sometimes becoming drug free
has less to do with addiction
and more to do with sanity

we weren’t the only kids who grew up this way
to this day
kids are still being called names
the classics were
hey stupid
hey spaz
seems like each school has an arsenal of names
getting updated every year
and if a kid breaks in a school
and no one around chooses to hear
do they make a sound?
are they just the background noise
of a soundtrack stuck on repeat
when people say things like
kids can be cruel?
every school was a big top circus tent
and the pecking order went
from acrobats to lion tamers
from clowns to carnies
all of these were miles ahead of who we were
we were freaks
lobster claw boys and bearded ladies
juggling depression and loneliness playing solitaire spin the bottle
trying to kiss the wounded parts of ourselves and heal
but at night
while the others slept
we kept walking the tightrope
it was practice
and yeah
some of us fell

but I want to tell them
that all of this shit
is just debris
leftover when we finally decide to smash all the things we thought
we used to be
and if you can’t see anything beautiful about yourself
get a better mirror
look a little closer
stare a little longer
because there’s something inside you
that made you keep trying
despite everyone who told you to quit
you built a cast around your broken heart
and signed it yourself
you signed it
“they were wrong”
because maybe you didn’t belong to a group or a click
maybe they decided to pick you last for basketball or everything
maybe you used to bring bruises and broken teeth
to show and tell but never told
because how can you hold your ground
if everyone around you wants to bury you beneath it
you have to believe that they were wrong

they have to be wrong

why else would we still be here?
we grew up learning to cheer on the underdog
because we see ourselves in them
we stem from a root planted in the belief
that we are not what we were called we are not abandoned cars stalled out and sitting empty on a highway
and if in some way we are
don’t worry
we only got out to walk and get gas
we are graduating members from the class of
fuck off we made it
not the faded echoes of voices crying out
names will never hurt me

of course
they did

but our lives will only ever always
continue to be
a balancing act
that has less to do with pain
and more to do with beauty.