What we are

Sacrifice indeed,
no I’m not your enemy.
My salvation as of yet,
no it’s not your promise.
Is this an attempt
not so inept to the senses,
for me to see through your eyes,
so deeply and strongly?
Though I wish,
I know the truth;
who you are,
who you have been.



More silence.

I’ve come to think, as I often do, that silence is cynical. However used to silence I may be, it never ceases to become even more exponentially atrocious than it was prior. Even the lack of ambient noises has become evident. This has actuated in me questions with mediated results;

  • Why is this silence present?
  • For what motive does the silence persist?
  • How can the silence end?

What comes to mind when you think of silence?

No sound?

I find silence to go far beyond inaudible sound-waves. Silence, perhaps, is the innate ability to know when input should be given. Maybe silence could also be that congenital shyness we all experience at one point or another. How do we know why this silence exists? It’s such an unclear answer when seen on a deeper level of rationality. We can’t just say it’s the refusal to speak or share; but rather we need to come to an understanding of where it originated in the first place. In my opinion, that’s the most antagonistic thing to comprehend.

Which brings me to why the silence won’t disperse… That could be a personal reason, will-power so-to-speak, untapped by the mind. When silence is such a strong accommodation in one’s life, seeing anything more can be quite constraining. I find silence to be a powerful element; it can be relaxing, intrinsic, you name it. With silence, perfection can be accomplished. It can also be disastrous. Isolation has never proven to be exactly beneficial to oneself. After all, “you are your own worst critic.” That somewhat innocuous thought isn’t always so innocuous. I think thought provokes thought, which provokes silence when thought seldom, which engages more silence, continuing on with even more thought.

A vicious circle.

My final aforementioned question, as I see it, is the most important of all. For repetition’s sake, how can the silence end? I don’t think silence ends. I think it is a self-extenuating perpetuation, that may or may not go dormant to the mind’s notice.

It’s not like our self-reflections are shouted by us with pride – at least not always – but more so on a private level.

Maybe we should start yelling our thoughts at people.


It will always get it’s way,
like the beggar of trickery;
fallen tears, unspoken fears –
a torturing hell verbatim.
Deepening the part of mind,
turned now to stone.
Solid, incongruent;
unfocused, exponential.
It’ll never let you go.

No more

No more promise,
no more fears,
no more poems,
crimson tears.

No more fate,
no more love,
no more clouds,
up above.

No more color,
no more bone,
no more justice,
far from home.

No more practice,
no more hate,
no more grievance,
just too late.

Note: This is all one poem, but each stanza represents something different.

Alone, Empty

How morose of a man
to feel such paucity,
to feel an abundance of absence.
How anesthetized
to alleviation so contrary
to accommodation.

Writing and I

I think writing is expressive.

Writing allows us to express our feelings in a more in-depth and organized way.

I write a lot. To handle stress, I took to writing in a journal to better understand my position in mind contorting situations. I write in my journal almost everyday, and thusly I think I’ve come to see who I really am upon reflection. Though, through my near-daily writings, I have come to find a point of contention in my day-to-day life; what aspects of my life need to be changed, what personal eminent qualities need to be improved and what should remain the same? That is an ever-changing question to me.

Another way I deal with stress and personal transgressions is by writing poetry. When I write poetry, I like to try to generalize a concept or idea that I have an opinion of. When I do so, usually I write them down in my notebook, scratch things out and replace them with more centralized ideas, add footnotes for my own viewing pleasure, then post them on my nice little poorly trafficked blog here.

Overall, writing is one of my few passionate obsessions, one that I don’t think will ever die out of my being. So if you like my writing, there will always be more to come. :)


A symbol with a meaning,
just like every other.
So adequate with combination;
A likely ability to converge
one word with another,
a title to aptitude
of many-a-different meaning.