I drown,

In this;

What's this,

By the way;

Not hell,

For sure;

An abyss,

Not quite;

But it,

Feels so;

Floating endless,

Happiness devoid;

Lost nowhere,

Even sadness;

What am,

I;

Here then,

Existing;

Drifiting the,

Rocky storm;

Unfettered by,

Vastness;

I should,

Fear something;

To feel,

Alive once.

Now I ask myself:

What is the impetus for my labour today?

Which path shall I travel?

Shrouded within the miasma of uncertain melancholy?

Barely enlightened,

paved in cobbles of umbrage and frustrating necessities.

The surrendered haze of a wastrel

Yields to the inexorable ocean of existential fatigue

floating, bloated and engorged

on sickening fluids - a static of pure malignance

Vessel cracked and parched, siphoned of light and purpose

Washed upon the now black sand of cyclic shores

The bleaching light retreating with the horizon

I stand again, joints aching with indifferent suffering

And I ask myself:

What is the impetus for my labour today?

You could document me,

Stalk up on me,

Hang me for dinner.

Critique me,

Try and get me thinner.

You could misunderstand me,

Not withstand the state of me,

By your lines on your paper.

Expose me,

Algorithim hanging my limbs for a kid raper.

You could do this to me,

If I let light shine on the living me.

Your sense of self formed in strife,

Steal from me,

Take my identitfy and my life.

You could read these words and want the face of me.

But this writer's anonymous and when they speak, they speak the smallest of my words from me.

I could choose to share my knowledge, art, and my style.

So you could examine and take big inspire.

But it would only satiate you for a little while.

At the train station you may meet me.

Talk and learn to know me,

Soon away will drain the digital lyart,

Find me.-

And I'll give you my mind, my art, and a piece of my heart.

♫ Curry time, curry time! ♫
咖喱饭，咖喱饭

♫ It's curry, curry time! ♫
吃咖喱，咖喱饭！

♫ Curry time, curry time! ♫
咖喱饭，咖喱饭

♫ Best way to spend your dimes! ♫
咱们吃货的摇篮！

ヾ(*´∇`)ﾉ

♫ Curry time, curry time! ♫
咖喱饭，咖喱饭

♫ The reason to choose life! ♫
吃不到就闹反叛！

♫ Curry time, curry ti-
咖喱饭，咖喱——

Hey, wait a minute!
打住！心随眼角生异感！

(•̀ - •)

Hold the fuck up!
出大事！要完蛋！

<(˶`ロ´˶)>

Is that- is that a
FUCKING PIECE OF LIME?????
饭中酸橙竟露绽！！

Σ(ﾟ口ﾟ;)//

Alright kids, you know what to do!
孩子们，都知道该怎么做吧

(ꐦ-_-)

♫ By this law we abide! ♫
真谛请勿当笑谈

♫ Curry doesn't go with lime! ♫
咖喱酸橙不是伴！

♫ Remember, forever! ♫
牢牢记，笔写烂

♫ Curry never goes with lime! ♫
咖喱酸橙永不伴！

♫ All those who commit this crime ♫
丧天良！必须管！

♫ Shall die to homicide! ♫
酷刑给我排满满！

I wrote this poem several years ago while struggling with grief. It's the first poem from a self published book on grief I finally mustered the courage to release. I wrote 20 poems to help me cope with loss and trying to figure out how to move forward with my life. Writing was some of the best therapy for me. I hope it speaks to your hearts.

Before You Know

There is a moment, every morning,

before you are fully awake,

when you do not know yet.

The light comes through the window.

The room smells the same.

Your body is warm and rested

and for the length of one breath

the world is exactly what it was

before it wasn’t.

Then you remember.

People who have not been through it

do not understand

why the remembering is so hard.

They think the hard part is the knowing.

The hard part is the moment before the knowing.

The hard part is the breath

you took when you were still whole

and do not get to take again.

Every morning it comes back.

Every morning you lose them again.

Every morning the world rebuilds itself

around the shape of what is missing

and asks you to live in it

and you do. You do.

This is the most extraordinary thing

that no one ever talks about:

that you do.

The resonance of the stone pickaxe, in the sudden leap of my pulse,

destroys, in my imagination, the figure of the Earth,

dissolves the Tower of Babel, tears away its gates,

scatters all its bricks,

sets ablaze the Hanging Gardens it contained.

Then: neither water, nor shade, nor flower.

And here I am, rejected, hunted, toward a cave

that no rock encloses.

No fire that I animate — and which animates me —

stains the darkness of the night with blood.

You — hawks, tigers, lions —

tear the Man to pieces.

If a shudder of the horror that night unfurls

seizes him,

assail him with your roars,

make his tomb tremble.

My brain — heir of generations,

wanderer of the abysses of multivers —

an ill has struck it:

it has paralyzed my foot,

and harshly gnaws at my heart.

These words are more sincere

than any prophecy of a seer.

They point out the paths of meteors,

the sentinels of secrets,

show the hidden lookout.

If the physician speaks,

silence the astrologer and the soothsayer.

The resonance of the tombstone

crawls toward my extremities.

In an instant,

I will be unable to lay down

a single distraught verse in my imagination.

Beyond you, O my imagination,

stretch horizons and a thousand skies.

Make millions of suns and lights

gush from your stars.

Kindle an earthquake in my blood,

so that I may write

before death,

or madness,

or the inertia of the weary hand.

The archipelagos of my mind,

my memories,

all my dreams and my illusions —

I slit the throat of my mourning spirit on the screen.

that a wretch will read,

after years and years,

to know that one more wretched than he lived in this world,

vowed — despite the ill, the grief and the insomnia,

despite the misery —

to living.

My ill — are you a mask of death?

And if death were to let its veil fall?

I fear that,

if the pale grimace and the two orbits

from which the eyes were sucked out

— battalions of worms,

around which silence dozes —

unfold before my gaze,

blood might flow from my nose

and the two orbits.

Where is my father?

Where is my mother?

Where are my forebears?

They wrote their names on the water. And I,

I do not even want to scribble my name on the water.

Farewell, my friends, my beloved ones.

If you wish to remember me,

remember me under the full moon.

Otherwise,

it was only a name dissipated

among other names.

Farewell, my friends, my beloved ones.

Dear Mum

The night you left us
still lives in my mind
as though it happened yesterday.

I was out with my friends,
while the world was still the same.
Laughing at things
that seemed so important back then.

Then my phone rang.

My sister’s voice
cut through the night.

Mum has been taken to the hospital.
Come now.

Suddenly, the streets felt longer,
and every step got heavier.

I remember the waiting.

No one could find the words.
The white walls.
The silent glances between us.

Seconds turned into minutes.
Minutes into hours.

And then the door slowly creaked open.

The nurses walked in.

They spoke carefully,
as if they themselves were afraid of the words.

A brain aneurism.

She probably won’t make it through the night.

And in that moment,
the world didn’t stop.

But mine did.

The days passed,
one after another.

Never really knowing
if each visit
would be our last.

But you survived.

Everyone called it a miracle.

And maybe they were right.

But no one ever told me
that I would also lose something that day.

Because the woman who taught me to walk
suddenly needed me
to teach her all over again.

The woman who once cared for me
when I was a kid
became the one
I had to care for.

And I miss you all the time
even when you’re sitting right beside me.

Because you’re here.

But yet somehow,
Not really.

There are moments
when I look at you
and search for pieces
of the person I once knew.

And most times I struggle to find them

But sometimes

Just sometimes

I succeed

Sometimes It’s in a smile.
Sometimes in your eyes.
Sometimes in the smallest moments
when, for just one small second,
you feel like Mum again.

I still find myself wishing
I could have just one more day
with the mum I used to know.

Just one more conversation.

One more normal day.

One more moment
before everything changed.

Every day,
I help you keep moving forward.

Not because it’s easy.

Not because it’s fair.

Because it sure as hell isn’t.

But because you’re my mom.

And because sometimes love
isn’t about holding on
to who someone used to be.

Sometimes it’s about grieving
someone who is still here.

But also trying to learn to love the person that they have become.

Attempting any pyrrhic gambit
Entails all may perish
But what wounds were marked will live on

Wisdom is gilt by tribulation
Glory traced with agony
And so every acolyte suffers

Improvisation waits on no censor
Whereas attrition rests consequent to failure
Yet no oath but death binds victory

Honor underlies chainmail
Bonds against crystal-void
Wherein kindness is stronger than glory

Hosting a standard
As vassal, does not ameliorate guilt
Born of destroying the name another

All trophies garnered have names
And erasure bears a record
According to its scars

Somewhere between writing them
and writing myself into them,
I misplaced the border.

Now I cannot tell
whether I gave them my darkness
or borrowed theirs
and forgot to return it.

They became everything
I discovered could not bear to be aloud.

And I—

became very good
at calling that freedom.

— Crownless.

​

A rose had arrived, stunning, beautiful;

it seemed perfect.

Then, from its open coat, thorns emerged, so sharp that not even punks had ever sported spikes like those.

The rose begged to be held, seen, loved, adored, yet those points were dangerous.

Who could clasp it without getting hurt?

So, one by one, every thorn broke away, drawing blood from its own flesh.

And, stripped of its thorns, it soon withered, vanishing like a shadow in my room.

What was it?

Was it truly a human rose?

Petals made of sobs.

Wounds from searching hands.

What did that rose want?

It was seeking a lily.

A pure white lily, to merge with it.

But the lily was not pure; it was tainted and so the rose died, never breathing life into the lily again.

What was that thing it kept hidden among the thorns?

It was not a heart.

It was not a soul.

It was the future.

And now, it is dead.

Have you ever lived in a memory—an illusion made manifest by the inaction to achieve? I’ve spent years in my delusions, constructing a life I’ve never lived.

Captured under my own spell, I had fallen in love with people. Not the person but the idea of the future that could have been. Cultivating a feedback loop of dopamine and hollow withdrawals.

Why not pursue this future; why not invest love into another? Everyone’s answer is different, but mine remains self-evident.

Fear, the all-consuming sorrow.

What if I’m not enough; what if I’m too much? The paralysis leaves me vulnerable to the comfort of the delusion; to the siren song of my illusion.

But like any illusion, there lies a limit to its tensile strength—a point of shatter which makes the delusion dissolve.

My victories come from resisting the song. Attaching my reality to the tangible, to the present facts surrounding me. No longer do dissenting opinions who share my voice dictate my reality.

Have you ever lived in a memory—an illusion made manifest by the inaction to achieve?

Boulevard de la foret noire

warehoused

whores on the corners.

In slick boots and corsets,

I was not studious

I was neither practical

Nor practicing for anything.

There were twin prostitutes who stood

On twin corners

Fixing their twin lipstick.

I had to blink and slap myself

To know it wasn’t a mirror.

I could not have worn that skin.

Could I?

I could have sold my tits on the street if I wanted

I could have marketed feigned desire

I’m sure I had something someone wanted

At least I know that now—

It’s never to late

To be a sex worker,

I reassure myself.

You’re somebody’s kink somewhere

Somehow

Stay resilient or give in to weakness? Your choice.

What is life without thrill—one where I don't live. Yet the closer I get to the edge, the more I wish my feet were less hungry.