Simply me and my musings


my heart does not beat but paces;

an uneasy stirring amongst placidity

as madness stalks and creeps

that which is helpless to run


I watched the storm and wanted to become her

Could’a Would’a Should’a

‪I don’t know how to feel so I won’t‬

‪No… I wouldn’t‬

‪I always knew I couldn’t‬

‪But… Perhaps I had‬

‪So, what was that?‬


I cannot stop pushing you away

Realizing I cannot love you without hating myself

Has left me unsure of what to do with my hands

That both reach out and reject

(Or what I want you to do with yours)

Loneliness Is My Oldest Lover

You gave me distance

That was your mistake

I’m in love with Misery

Familiar with heart ache

Do not be shocked

That I’m comfortable alone

I’ve only ever belonged to myself

And never believed in home

I told myself I’d never be naive and oh, the beautiful irony-To know it is a wolf beneath the wool, yet still cry out in shock when it devours me.

-The Wise Sheep’s Naivety 


Love me

Leave me

Synonyms on your tongue

Kiss me

Curse me

An attempt to live while young

First peace

First war

Disagreement of the mind

The present

The future

They leave each other blind

Her judgment

His prospecting

Leave too much at stake

Her heart

His freedom

A bend about to break

Twisted Trinity

I’m letting go of the ones I love

Lest they hurt from holding onto me

I climbed too far and was pulled down

From Eden’s apple tree

A taste of fruit, knowledge cursed,

How I agonized over all I cannot be

So I offered my soul, begged to feel less alone,

Now Death, Devil, and I make three

I cannot stomach the dissonance of my existence.

Little Black Book

I have a little black book filled with paper that is the purest white. There are no lines on the paper, no wide or college ruled reminders to keep my composure. When things get bad, that is, when I get bad, I write all the turbulent thoughts I would not dare whisper aloud within the sanctuary of these pages. In those moments of mental disquiet, I purge my mind in its entirety with a black inked pen. I write with a black inked pen on white blank pages in a little black book…how ordinary it all sounds, how unimportant it all seems. But I pour my sins onto such pristine paper because I am a perfectionist who loathes mistakes, a realist who cannot stomach anything but the ideal (my ideal). Having no choice but to present my thoughts imperfectly, I force myself to lose any illusions of control. What I write I cannot take back and what I am left with is painful sincerity. The errors I make-slanted sentences, hardly legible words, some even misspelled or scratched out-taunt me, and each horror uttered is laid bare in utter horror like a confessional where I am both the guilty and the judge. In this quiet plea for the mercy of acceptance, I seek forgiveness for myself from myself. No matter the words I write they all say the same thing: there are things out of my control that can be neither reconciled nor changed, and being unable to obtain the unobtainable does not equate to failure. Sometimes there is simply no way to make my dark mind sound beautiful. Sometimes I am just fucked up and there is nothing poetic about it. I attempt to prove to myself that the pages are not ruined by the consuming mistakes, rather, something once empty is now filled with moments to look back on and learn from. It is growth: it is a process to find a greater understanding, and thus a greater tolerance, for the imperfect. I cannot help but stare at the ink stained hand that writes this. It trembles, unsteady and unsure beneath the weight of the words it holds. I will continue to try to appreciate these pages for their broken honesty (right after I scrub this ink from my skin) but I find myself still searching for the word “acceptance” between non-existent lines.