Poem on a Plane

Between the grids of glitter on a pitch-black slate,
Between the intermittent flickers of yellow, gold, and gray –
Between and behind,

It feels like a dream.
It feels like a lie.

But I could push myself against the glass
And see every inch of endless blue tarp,
Breathe the palm grass,
Feel that white-hot splinter,

In like a whirlwind and out like a whisper,

I float with thoughts of not being human.
I didn’t make this hell,
But still I walk through it.
If I could bury my body in the sand
And stare up at the clouds all my life,
I would.

But is to do no harm to do no good?

There were days of feeling happy
Before this pitch-black sky,
But it feels like a dream.
It feels like a lie.



Day by Day

If I didn’t hate, hate, hate,
What would I have to love?
If I didn’t go day by day
In situations I don’t want,
Then how would I make myself
Into something else
Better than what I was.

If I didn’t move so slow,
Maybe I’d catch a train
To somewhere wonderful –
And I’ll keep running away
Until I feel nothing,
Day by day.

I make homes out of bed sheets,
Lovers and small things,
Like the way that the birds sing
In the afternoon.
And if I keep living this way,
Day by day,
I will wash away

And drown.

Day by day, I hate hate hate
The gray in the mornings
And the traffic after 3;
Day by day, I will complain
And not change a thing.

And day by day, I will die this way,
Mundane and drunk,
Completely bottled up,
Living paycheck to paycheck,
In debt and on the cusp
Of a breakdown,
Any minute now,
I’m going to blow up – –

But day by day I spend with you,
I feel okay when I’m with you.
I hate, hate, hate,
A little less when I’m with you.




Are you teething on your own skin?
Swallowed up by the littlest things?
Sewn together with small pins
In all the places where light would’ve been?

Everybody’s running, but we don’t know what from –
Could be a rich man or a gun
Or something bigger than us;
Are you just another piston?
Are you just another piston?

People love talking like they can’t see,
Love spewing venom on everyone’s beliefs;
Who do we blame when we’re all screaming
“It’s not me, not me, it’s society!”

I made up my mind about it when I was young;
I’m not gonna run in circles while the world’s blowing up,
Like I’m just another piston,
Like I’m just another piston.

The taste of metal in my mouth,
I’m in charge of when it all comes down.

All it takes is a small break
All it takes is a
Small thing.

Quality is never built to last;
So are you really living
If you aren’t living fast?



My most popular poem is 9 lines long.

Back when I was writing poetry on tumblr, I wrote a very short poem sometime in 2013/2014. It went like this:

I think
What you and I
Have in common
Is that we both run
From our problems;
But you ran
To the ends of the earth,
While I just ran
In circles.

That poem currently has 1,528 notes, and I still get notified of likes and reblogs to this day. A humbling number to more established poets, but to me, that poem was one of my greatest victories.

I have a hard time writing raw and quick like that now; I used to sit in my best friend’s kitchen and diddle up poems in 5 minutes while we were talking over tea. I guess over time I became less relatable; more Hyde and less Plath. I don’t know what makes a great poet, to be honest. There are few that I enjoy reading these days. I’m beginning to think it’s all chance.


Alive, Empty, Fine

Morning’s are gray.
Morning’s are brushing against skin by accident,
Staying a little longer –
Just a few moments longer –
Until the gray turns blue
And the blue turns black
And the black is

All in my head.

I can’t say there aren’t mornings
I wish I were dead,
Or maybe just injured
Or silenced;
More often,
I wish my thoughts weren’t so violent.
All too often I wake with these thoughts –
Moreso, it’s the feeling of needing to


Push a button in plastic and feel fine;
Re-evaluate the hard parts,
Put ice on the burn marks,
Feel fine.

Aren’t I?

Am I not a whole body?
Maybe only half a mind,
But am I not a somebody?

Am I not alive?

Mornings are gray,
Brief, freckled, soft and quiet.

Am I not alive,
Empty and fine?


On adulthood;

I think we’re all just children
in big-kid shoes,
holding cigarettes and bottles of booze,
all just fumbling around like drunken lovers –
groping around at whatever hand reaches back to us.
I think we’re all just
children in button-ups and ties,
high-heels and bedroom eyes –
What are bedroom eyes?
Do any of us know
what we’re doing here,
are we all just dying painfully slow, or
is there something I’m missing?
Have I done something wrong?
When they passed out the manuals in high school,
Was I sick at home?

I’ve never felt so incompetent,

so feeble and raw,

like how a baby teethes on her chewed up thumb;
we cause pain to relieve it.
We become addicted.
And it’s all downhill from there.
We’re in slacks and ties and we’re crying,
Crazy in our bedrooms,
Crying bullets from our eyes –

Because you are never an adult;
Just a sad, grown-up child.