Steph’s story¬†

They say your first experience is the deadliest
Idk if it was the sound of the cleaning lady’s footsteps walking down the halls

Or the adrenaline rush of being seconds closer to death

As Mary advised me of the feeling to come

Pointing at her sugar coated nail polish

These series of events were the trigger

That muffled us to cover our delinquency 

Our voices mute but it wasn’t silent

They say scream rhymes with caffeine

But not right away

The minutes passing as Casper is premeditating his approach

My body numb

But my ears screeching

Of the white powder running down my throat

My tongue tingled from chemicals reacting 

As I screamed to overlook my senseless emotions

The sound that sent my mind flying

Yet my body still 

As I stood there in another dimension


Perfect imperfection

As humans, we are naturally programmed to be prone to failure Our flaws are ineluctable 

And our mistakes, they are inevitable. 

So how come we are put in a world that teaches us otherwise? 

We are inveigled to believe perfection is success, 

and fooled to view imperfection as nothing but nonfulfillment.

When truly, imperfection is the epitome of our surroundings 

Power of the pen and the paper

Staring facedown at the blank pages screaming out for the writers cognitive endowments. Craving the relief that the slightest caress of his pen consigns as he transmutes his beliefs into eloquent black ink. Curing it’s vacuity,  transforming it’s barrenness into a prepossessing canvas. A canvas that will soon convey it’s very own endowments to those fortuitous enough to consume them. The canvas that feeds the hungry mind of the reader, curing their craving, their vacuity. It becomes a chain reaction caused by the mind of the writer to the pen, the pen to the paper, and the paper to the reader. Each stroke of the pen infuses a thought in the readers mind, overcoming it’s blankness. It is of no importance the handwriting, magnitude, or even organization of the work. Each fragment will implant a seed in the mind of whom is in front of the page. The boon of the selfish writer, documenting in the interests of his very own intention, is the impact his writing imposes on the reader. A selfish act unjustifiably condemned as altruistically advantageous to any soul it comes in contact with. As the pen continues to nourish the paper, it waters the implanted seed and the seed then disperses it’s newborn information to the mind of the reader. As a result, the reader becomes enlightened by the work of the writer. And thus, is the chain reaction of the knowledge of the writer, generating information into the world, and finally, to the mind of the reader. The unavoidable power of the pen and the paper. 

Foolish lover

I wish i saw the truth behind your words as easy as you once faked them.

I wish, oh how I wish, I overlooked the amalgamation of meaningless gesticulations you  managed to hypnotize me with.
The empty promises, the mistaken beliefs.
Your false exertions,
The doltish love letters.
A spectacle awning every dagger in between. 
Am I to blame for the forlorn bruises you implanted on my back
When I stared straight into your eyes?
As it was my ultimate fault for not looking.


Steering wheel in direction

Passenger heedful
As the tires dominate the pavement and shepherd the travelers to their journeys end
I’ve always experienced some sort of admiration for long car rides
They are much more complex than they emerge
Bland people perceive them as mundane, eager to reach their upcoming destination
What doesn’t come to ones realization is the bulk of history they are itinerating by
The white SUV you drove by, they were conveying their kids to Disney for the first time,
a road trip that engraved their memories for a lifetime 
The young lovers holding hands as they drove by the exact same road you are on now, traveling together for the first time, convinced they were in love,
It’s been two years since they’ve last spoken.
The wrecked teenager running away from home, driving, driving, driving, with no destination.
The ill-stared 31 year old leaving work, on his way to meet his newborn child for the first time, when his car impelled off the shoulder of the road, 
that was the last they ever heard of him.
You drove by the roses and “Drive Safely” sign that superseded him
Hours proceed,
You’ve elapsed by thousands of homes, those of which obtain incalculable memories of their own
You have 5 minutes left,
The burned trees by the lake you’re driving by as you’re attaining your destination, once bloomed flowers that evoked the 80 year old widow of the ones her husband would bring home
She used to devote her lonesome time inhaling the aroma as she reminisced his presence 
2 minutes left,
And you’re putting your shoes back on, solaced that you ultimately ambit your end, 
You’ve migrated by countless eventualities you will never come across on, 
Not aware of the infinite aggregate of memories that will forever be succeeding yours.