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writ·er (s)


1. jack of all trades, master of none. kings and queens of research and bullshit.

2. lost souls with big questions. lost souls who spend lifetimes trying to unlock answers of the universe. lost souls who only ever find more questions.

3. people who build their worlds from scratch, out of daydreams and on the back of old homework. misunderstood by those who can only imagine what they can see.

4. architects who break themselves into pieces and call those pieces characters and call those characters anything but their own name.




1. something decided by an internal compass you'll never be able to describe. to some people, it feels like the most important part of them and to others, just a piece of their identity they lost in the back of they closet as a kid and forgot about.

2. something decided by your parents and society. labeled by either pink or blue and supposedly evident by whether you cry or not.

3. something that does not control anyone nor can anyone do much to control it. often differentiated by visual appearance and expression.

Reflect on the Year

it is more than 365 days

for that project you finished in May
was started a year before

and that healing you worked on
was a work in progress long before
and will continue to be one
for years to come

one year does not exist
separate from each one before it

Every event,
and accomplishment
is made up of
moments in time-
when you started
when you tried to quit
when you didn't

time functions on a
never stopping
no matter how hard
you might wish it would

we're just along for the ride
driven by the beat of time
and in 2020?
you're gonna see me dancing

Voices of the Trees [revised]

When I was 8-years-old, I wrote a poem (here). I'm thankful for that kid because it's the year I decided I was going to be a poet. This is my revision seven years later...

Trees whisper
to each other.
Most ignore the 
rustles in the wind,
but I listen to legends.
Stand still and you can, too.

Trees have all the secrets
of the world (all yours, too).
No need to fear, they are the best 
at keeping secrets (years of practice)
I only know the rumors, the legends, the 
stories- if you listen, with your soul on tiptoe,
outside; surrounded by silence, standing still in it
you might just- now, don't give up because right before 

you think about giving up?
you'll hear them.

Painting Persephone

when I'm painting Persephone,
I'm painting the souls she tormented
the flowers she grew
and the sunlight in her hair

the goddess of spring
Queen of the Underworld
the bringer of destruction
a force to be reckoned with,
someone to be feared

when I'm painting Persephone,
I imagine
her struggle, watching
her story being
mistold, over and over,
men drawing lines
where they weren't
supposed to be

she was a mighty queen
written as a helpless victim

I'm painting
Despoina and
Kore and
Proserpina, all of
her faces
and phases

like a moon,
she is cold
and unwavering

she'll show you no mercy
and you'll rot
while she throws
flowers on your grave

Hypocrite [guest poet]

It's not supposed to hurt.
Looking over at the people I love, I smile.
I try to show my love but my face betrays me.
Insecurities grip me tight and give birth to a thousand doubts.
What if they don't love me anymore?

I'm glad they don't hear me crying in the shower.
They think that I'm perfect, so I don't have the right to be sad.
"Other people have it worse."
Pain that I can't explain.
Knives twisting in my gut.
I've been stabbed by someone I love and they don't have a clue how it hurts.
The mirror is dirty, like my reflection.
Feeling like a joke, rubbing my teary eyes
breaths come in shallow.
I say to myself, "Stop this!
Your life is great!
They are jealous of you
Most of them love you."

Do they even know me?

The real me?

I'm the one who's jealous of those who have it worse
because when they cry, they have a right to.

Everything is in place, nothing ever hurts me.
I'm fine. I’ve figured it all out.

The shower knows the truth they'll never know.
Maybe it's for the best to be the happy one.
The one who has it all.
Time to put my brave face on.

People ask for my opinions as if I've got it all figured out.
I love them, but when I tell the truth it hurts them.
I love them, so I lie.
They point at me and say
Maybe I am but you never really wanted to know the truth, did you?

I lie to myself about things I don't wanna feel.
Thoughts of jealousy and pettiness have crippled me before.
Would I fight myself this time or just accept defeat at the hands of someone I promised myself I wouldn't become?
The 8th-grade version of myself.
The mean girl, I loathe myself.
Am I becoming her?
please, let me die before she takes over.
I would rather set fire to my own corpse than hurt the people I love due to my own urges.

Only the shower has heard my plea.
I don't have a leg to stand on.
How do I get up and put the mask on this morning?
If it's all the same, I'd rather crawl back in my bed and wait for death.

Does anyone really even worry about me
or do they miss the girl I once was?

Written by Rupkatha, my brave new friend who lives a world away, unaware of her own strength.

to describe a museum

to describe a museum is to describe a
maze built of books that lie open for
indulgence, for education, begging
to be read, to be seen

to describe a museum is to describe a
story that needs three rooms full of
artifacts to begin telling it,
lights low, minds wide open

to describe a museum is to describe a
a contradiction- honoring a civilization
by stealing their art and
deciding how to tell the story, themselves

to describe a museum is to describe a
deep ache, a yearning for knowledge
and understanding and a
connection beyond words

to describe a museum is to describe
a maze
a story, a contradiction
and a deep ache

The Butterfly Effect

Use care when
to the past, one mistake
could change history.
You may never return
to that which you once knew.
Reveal a secret and
cause a war.
Stop something from
ever happening-
the entire
space-time continuum
will be doomed.

Decisions you may consider
small, use care-
you have more power than you realize.


they say
that luck
comes in threes

good and bad and everything in between

they say
the pattern stays
and you settle in

in music and stories and punchlines

they say
two's a pattern,
that it's breakable
and when I break it; it just doesn't sit right

your body is a temple

your body 
is your temple
you pick the colors
you write the rules, here
scribble them in sharpie on the wall

your body is a temple
*  so hang some  l i g h t s  *
paint each room a different color
change whatever you need for it to feel like home

respect your temple, your beautiful home,
water the plants and hang pictures that make you happy
take out the trash and open the windows to let in the  b r e e z e

your body is yours, and yours only
nourish it with water, you won't drown
paint your nails, pierce your ears, dye your hair that funky color
go ahead and get that tattoo, I promise it won't be your biggest regret
look both ways before you cross the street and remember to let the light in