This is the story of a Bum,
who was always called a freak
for never having a mum.

He tried to forget with rum
because he was weak
for he was never raised by a Mum.

He broke his thumb
and scratched his cheeks.
This is the story of a Bum.

He was always glum,
struggling through every week.
This is the story of a Bum,
who needed nothing more than a Mum.



Walking down a street roaring with cars is someone being attacked by the shards of their mirror.
They will keep on strutting in spite of those questions of identity, those crises of being,
Though the person living within continues to die, little by little, with each gash made.
The march will not end unless the good ol’ Reaper has come asking for it,
And even then, the Reaper will be in for a fight with that mortal,
Who has made it a point to take each shard and cut down those who would dare,
Dare to hurt the people that would stand behind them, even when they are falling,
And their blood is seeping down their arms and pooling by their feet,
They can keep standing back up in the name of someone else,
Leaving their own to the shadows for the sake of keeping the spotlight on the others.
Far from being a veteran of history’s war-torn past, this one is experienced on the battlefield
Of the mind and heart, having survived, though battle-scarred, their traumas
Never to be spoken, going unremembered, forever at peril to be dishonored
Should they seek to regain the righteousness of living for the most important self



There is a woman, confident in a body that is at once pale as light, and dark as the night,
She twirls and twirls, the hem of a star-patterned dress floating into the air,
Dipping in and out of sight within the background of a lovely home, stained black and white.
All of a sudden, she begins to stumble in her beautiful celebration, the world having gone grey,
Though now far clearer. Still, there remains a certain amount of … mystery,
Behind the ancestry of one whose features are at once delicate, yet determined.
Her wide eyes give nothing away in the grayscale. If that stumble would have deterred another,
She refused to have any of it. The lady regained her senses with a step back, like a feather
Onto a still, crystal pond, and with a gentle grasp onto the hem of that flowery skirt,
Whose petals danced and turned with each swish of the silky dress.
She bowed her head into the tone faded with a hint of chocolate, just enough to tingle the senses.
This maiden’s curtsy would command the looks of her stunned audience, With her heels
Knocking against a wooden floor that was may not ever rotten with age, but a suave appeal.
Her head low, those locks of dark hair on her head would wave forward and over shoulders
That carried far, far more than she would, or could, even let on. And when she would rise up,
Once her gaze might consume the beings of a dumbfounded, doubtful group of onlookers,
The world would be filled with colors, the melanin of her skin making her gold, accentuated
By lips painted a dark, enticing ruby. Spreading her arms out, they would all see, those wings
With which she shall fly, shattering a blue sky into dust, going into a state that
We may never live to experience, losing this inspiration, this revival, of grace.



You sit in my room
Staring out the window
Although your face is painted
And in a room with many people
I can tell that you are all alone
Immobile in the corner, only seeing faces go in and out
I wonder what you think
What you feel
Is it a torture?
Do you wanna die?
Or do you feel that this is the only way to live
Seeing many faces going in and out
Showing many emotions, while you cannot show none
What do you think of me?
The person you see most
Do you feel anger?
Or have you gotten used to me, having no emotions
I thought you were cool at first sight
But was it the right choice to take you?
Do you like being with me?
Or would you rather be dead in the dump
I always wonder what you think
What you feel
Idk if I made the right choice
I hope you don’t go through hell
I hope this isn’t a curse for you
I hope you’re okay
And not waiting for your death, or an Armageddon



“The future does not belong to the faint hearted, it belongs to the brave” – Ronald Reagan

One quarter of the internet is pornography

Cyber bullying is on the rise
It seems dark, pointless
All so… fake
Fake friends, fake likes, fake… everything
What ever happened to talking over the phone?
So why bother
The phone is practically used for only gossip
Spreading rumors, harming one another
You can even have sex over the phone
It seems fake, you’re not even talking to the real person
What ever happened to sharing in hearing stories over the radio?
So why bother
The radio… it’s not even real
They make up half the noises they use
You know that, right?
The horse trot? Smacking tap shoes on a table
The fake static? It’s just tin foil
It’s so cheap, just share a real story among family
Why do you have to import it from some stranger
Little orphan annie, probably part of the damn soviets
We should just stick to the paper, at least it’s real
So why bother?
You read the paper?
It disconnects us, draws us away
We’re too caught up in our crossword puzzles to even notice an oncoming car
What ever happened to getting news the old fashioned way?
At least then it was more personal, there was a human element to it
Now, it’s just lines on pulp
There’s no imagination, just… the facts
I remember listening to the telegram, a proper conversation
So why bother?
The telegram is an invasion, I swear on it
Beeps coming through to the house? No thank you
I’ll know about the impending tornado when it gets here, and I’ll like it that way
I don’t need some stranger beeping at me from new york, when I’m living in Kansas
And to learn a whole new alphabet? Hell no!
I’ll just stick to my letters, thank you
This whole telegram is a whole load of bull
Back in my day, we read real books
So why bother?
What a load of malarkey
The common man will never read, that’s for the upper class
You think you’re real slick, huh? Thinking you’ve made it
just because you got your grubby little hands on a real book?
I don’t care what new “printing press” has been invented,
it’s a fad, it’ll be over soon, and we’ll be forgotten as always
We’re not the wealthy, my boy. We’re the forgotten
The static of history
Books are for people who matter
So put that shit down and quit dreaming
Back in my day, we didn’t even have books,
we just read the bible, and that’s all
I wish we could go back to the simple days,
when we read simple versus
So why bother
The written word inspires forgetfulness in its beholder
If you really care about your knowledge, you’d remember,
instead of letting it spill out, like it’s nothing
Knowledge is something to be earned,
it doesn’t just belong to everyone
The written word breaks that rule, allows the simple man
to facts outside his reality and comprehension
There will be a breakdown in the order of society
It will turn on its head
I remember the days when we remembered everything
we needed, like good, honest people
So why bother
For everyone of those, there is a Ben Carson,
a little kid from the hood who made it, tooth and nail,
to become a neurosurgeon. Or a Sherman Alexie,
who’s told he’ll never make it out of the reservation.
But by breaking that expectation, he got through.
Or a Syrian refugee, always told that because they were a girl,
they would never amount, and now they are learning to code,
build from chaos, a new order in which they have the power.
Of course, all these individuals are entering a lake,
where what what seems to surface is always the least dense,
bits of fluff, like the easy things in life, where pointless literature,
the meaningless joke, the self obsessed selfie lie.
So why bother? You bother because with each revolution,
there comes a chance for everyone.



I hate that you just stared at me when I met you
I hate that you never took your eyes off of me
I hate that your green eyes are so mesmerizing and manipulative
I hate that your voice sounds so worrisome and comforting
I hate that you told me all your problems just when we were strangers
I hate that you always asked me if I liked you multiple times
I hate that you always lie but play it out as sarcasm
I hate that you send heart emojis and love related content but don’t expect anything back
I hate that you always text me first but always leave me in delivered
I hate that you force yourself not to grin or smile
I hate that you treated me different from all the others
I hate that you never payed attention to your friends but all to me
I hate that you invited me and included me to friend groups
I hate that you never cursed to me
I hate that you always had a shy smile but always hid it when I was around
I hate that you always had a little blush when I came
I hate that you looked at me when we danced
I hate that you believe the only way to cure pain is to smoke that weed

I hate that you always had a smirk when we linked hands
I hate that you were my favorite person to talk to
I hate that you were the reason I wake up
I hate that you were always occupying my dreams
I hate that you were constantly on my mind
I hate that you were the only thing I talked about
I hate that you were the only person I truly trusted with my life
I hate that you are the one who knows lots of my secrets
I hate that you took over 5 months of my life



Vivid like breeze the air dances with
Jazzily jolly jokingly joyful
Flowers beam strongly as if they have powers
Vivid like swirls the petals glide through to in the sun
Pure life just beautiful almost chewable
Vivid like the bold flashes of the gold cameras
Snapping pictures of the universe
Vivid like the culture of the world
Train lanes of pure flowers
Vivid like the love given to the world



I am at a standstill in my life. I feel the same daily. What does my life consist of you ask? I’m married, happily. I just don’t feel perfect or good enough for her. I’m reminded of every mistake. I love fashion and I know that I’m great at it. But is that all I can do? Am I just stuck in a banana box with no other fruit? I like pink, purple and other bright colors. Why is that a problem? I love photography and art. No there is no more questioning. I am not a photographeranda fashion designer. I’m whatever I want to be. Pink, purple and anything bright will always have my attention. I’m married and loved for a reason. She accepts me for me and this is why she has my heart forever. This is my life. And my life is art.



I see a
Lonely spectre.
It is
What a shame to get lost in Europe.
The map
Was wrong and the spectre
Glares at me, it is
Chilling, just like communism.
Karl Marx?

Haikus are an art.
Sometimes they don’t make much sense,



Laying on the floor with my puppy Findly. Laid there for hours. Feeling like any minute I could die, but knowing I had my little buddy with me. Things could be worse. One day after a big fight with my dad, I ran to Holiday Park in a downpour. I watched the river rise, and puddles form. It was so calm. No one to disturb me in the forest. Only me, my music and my thoughts. It was one of those peaceful moments. I felt like I was the only person in the world. I distinctly remember watching a turtle surface from the water, and climbing past in my trance. The turtle has a clump of leaves on its back, which remained there until the reptile was out of sight. I don’t remember the rest of the journey, for I must have felt the departure of my peace must have been unwanted.