Category Archives: Emotions


When I say I don’t know how I could have made it through this without you,

its not a declaration of incompetence or weakness,  it’s a feeling of gratitude.

Of course I am capable, a woman can choose to stand alone.

Its not dependency, need, or loneliness.

I don’t require a manual on how to be strong enough to do this on my own.

What this is, is a wolf in woman’s skin, tearing at her throat to let you in.

If you prefer winter,

go on and forsake

the summer.

The sun that rises also drowns,

in grey horizon.

This warmth of breath,

might just as well smother.

Elements in our bodies,

deplete desire,

for fire.

You with blade,

chip away at ice,

to make something


so that others may say,

It bears striking resemblance

to something real,

attend a festival of ice,

In a bid to feel;

The morning arms that reached for you,

The morning smile that greeted you,

The morning lips which sought in you,

something perpetual.


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Filed under Emotions, Poem, poetry, travel, writing


Sad, sad I am for no one can understand or hear me. I am in this hollow realm of empty knocking to be free. The scientists cannot reassemble the egg of smashed misfortune. Sad are your eyes like the fountains of a great sea, where released ions absorb the sun into salt. Sad is this wound where you rush in and out of me, leaving empty memories that dissolve in the sad sea, surrounding the saddest island in all the world. I wake up laughing at sad dreams. You say I am a masochist. Show me real then. Show me some emotion.


Filed under Emotions, travel, writing

The Storm (A Narrative)

“You change direction but the sandstorm chases you. You turn again, but the storm adjusts. Over and over you play this out, like some ominous dance with death just before dawn. Why? Because this storm isn’t something that blew in from far away, something that has nothing to do with you. This storm is you. Something inside of you. So all you can do is give in to it, step right inside the storm, closing your eyes and plugging up your ears so the sand doesn’t get in, and walk through it, step by step. There’s no sun there, no moon, no direction, no sense of time. Just fine white sand swirling up into the sky like pulverized bones. That’s the kind of sandstorm you need to imagine.
And you really will have to make it through that violent, metaphysical, symbolic storm. No matter how metaphysical or symbolic it might be, make no mistake about it: it will cut through flesh like a thousand razor blades. People will bleed there, and you will bleed too. Hot, red blood. You’ll catch that blood in your hands, your own blood and the blood of others. And once the storm is over you won’t remember how you made it through, how you managed to survive. You won’t even be sure, in fact, whether the storm is really over. But one thing is certain. When you come out of the storm you won’t be the same person who walked in. That’s what this storm’s all about.” —Haruki Murakami—

That’s what the storms all about.

That’s what dominates me. That’s part of the condition, “its my disorder honey.” I tell her again and again, ad infinitum.
It’s this sharp ache in my spine where love threw a fist and broke through my heart. It’s every part of me in agony.

From the heights of the Alps, I once flew over, where peering down, I watched dolphins point up their smiling faces and open a passage through the sea. It’s that lost gateway of a dark unknown island that suddenly opens before me.

I have this feeling that I’m on top of the world. I’m in love with life itself. The birds are singing to me.

I love you, it could be as simple as the way you hold your leg up, and your muscle makes a flex that stimulates a sexual desire. It could be the way you smile and flick your hair, or just that indifference you exude that makes me crave you, even though we are absolute strangers.

Deep within I am dreaming of the perfect love, the ultimate one, craving affection and dreaming of perfection.

I never show my face, I keep up this mask, I alter my colours, a constant sense of fluctuation, of adaptation. I blend in, I seem in place, as in place as the furniture, until someone breaks a table or shatters a glass, and the whole scene melts down like an oil painting and dissolves. Then I realize nothing is in place, nothing at all.

What do you want me to be? How should I act? What words should I speak? I feel I am one word away from total dysfunction, total annihiliation. Choose the wrong word and the hammer falls. It’s a guillotine conversation. You have been judged as deserving death. I came to have fun. I came to relax. And the blade draws ever closer.

What I feel is a raging storm inwardly. What you see is a calm smile of acceptance, of defeat, of grace and conformity.

I want to sleep with someone, anyone who looks lovely and gentle. Please I just want to lay by your side. Hold me. If you touch me, or let me touch you,  you’re in danger of becoming God, most wouldn’t mind being held in such high esteem, but I assure you, you are going to fall. Every God falls eventually. So just lie very still, don’t move. Be like a statue. You are so beautiful. I don’t think there is any one else on earth with such beauty as yours. I want to stare forever in your eyes, please don’t leave, if you go away, it all dies. It’s all going to die if you show me your human side. But then suddenly it may all come back to life again.

It’s like you’re a stone Goddess, who only appears to those with the power to see such magic. You are pure magic to me. Every single strand of your hair must have been placed there by Midas, look how it shines, so golden. You must not care, don’t get too close. Just let me admire you. Don’t admire me back. Don’t feel, be like stone. Like a statuesque masterpiece. Be all sentiment, be gentle, when you kiss me, mean it with every drop of blood that flows through you, be sensual, be passionate, if you don’t mean it, I will sense it, and then you will shatter again. Please don’t shatter. Please love me. Come close. You’re too far. Touch me. Show me that you love me, as no one else ever has, as no one ever can.

The temperature in hell is too hot for our instruments to record. The blackest black, like coal has covered over everything. I am alone. I can only think of one thing, how to die. How to die fast, quickly before the moment passes and I lose my courage.

Empty. Empty. Empty.

Everything has stopped. Everyone is gone. The carousel is broken. Nothing is free. The guards have imprisoned the very song that inspired movement in us. We can’t dance to utter silence, to the sound of desolation. There’s no reason to go on. Stop this ride. I want to get off. It has stopped? Why don’t I feel anything? I have no sense of time, no sense of existing at all. It’s numb. It’s hollow. Nothing is real.

Be my friend. Be with me. Say you’ll be my friend and really mean it. But tomorrow it all stops. I lost my money. I’m all out of lucky coins. This world takes coins to make it go around. I must find that Goddess, the one with the gilded hair and perfect beauty. She really loves me. Everything she touches turns magic. She could make the music play, she could cause the earth to turn again.

Don’t look at me that way. You look at me as though I’m from another world. But something in your eyes, it’s like you have put my soul into an x-ray machine. I have to leave now. If I stay I might die.

Who am I? Maybe I am made of stone. I need something anything hard, anything sharp, to see if I really exist. To see if I can feel. If I can feel I must be real. But I can’t feel anything. But it doesn’t matter anymore. The numbness is gone. I feel pure euphoria.This is so beautiful. Your eyes are like rare jewels. The way you look inside me makes me feel like I’m standing before the Taj Mahal. It’s nothing my love, just a little blood, it didn’t hurt, it felt good. It means I am real. You must forgive me. I got lost. I got really lost and it went very black like the darkest tunnel and then you smiled and it’s all better now. The birds are singing for us, the music, I feel the music. It’s like someone opened a very old cage where all the beauty lived. And now that it’s free, nothing could ever be ugly. Everything is so alive it is as though the rhythm of all life flows to this music and its all interconnected and so beautiful, so incredibly beautiful I think I can’t even stand it. It breaks my heart.

I want to move away. Anywhere. Baudelaire once said that all life is a hospital and he wished that he were anywhere out of this world. Will you go with me to that place? If I have to go alone, I will. I’m not afraid.

I’ve forgotten what I came here for. I was working so hard to make it shine. It’s just dull. It lacks something. I know I said I wanted to be something, but I forgot why I wanted to be it. So you see, none of that matters anymore. Take back the coins, stop that annoying noise and tell everyone to go back to wherever they came from, forget it, you can all stay, I’m leaving.

The woman with the gold turned into a psychopath. She never loved me and her hair was not real gold, just some cheap drugstore dye that came in a box. I gave her everything. I lost it all.

I laugh furiously at the trials and tribulations of this sad stranger, who rides along with me. Who the hell is she and where did she come from? Why won’t she stop tormenting me with her needs and her dreams? She’s always making me jump through fire. I’m tired of getting burned. It seems we are fused together. I have no idea how it happened. I just wish she would leave, but she needs me, I’m kind of like her oxygen. We need eachother to breathe.

On the one hand I love her fiercely and understand her every move and motion, she’s like my best friend. I have never loved anyone this much. She knows everything about me. Exactly where to touch me, when to let me be, what I want and who I am. On the other hand she has no clue, and I think she’s an enemy. She doesn’t deserve the same air, she must go very soon. If she goes I go. It’s a deal then. We don’t belong anywhere, were just drifters, just a couple of lost little girls in a big scary world and it’s ugly out there. People are monsters. No one truly gets us or loves us, its just words they use. It’s all lies. They don’t even feel. They don’t know the first thing about what it means to feel. They are all fake, they are all just polished people with rust in their souls.

I loved her. I really loved her with all of me.

I don’t even know who I am. I’ve forgotten.

If the whole world forgets, I will be okay, as long as she remembers me.

As long as she knows I was real. I was real and I loved her, once upon a time, when the world shined and her eyes were paradise, they brought me around the world in a moment, and when she held me, I came alive, she came alive, everything was magic and music, everyone danced and opened their doors to welcome us. We were royalty.

I don’t know what to do now. Now that the music has died and all the magic has faded.

I think I’ll just lay here. And imagine her by my side. It’s enough to know she exists and that she was once mine. And though I may never find anyone else like her, one can always dream.

I woke up to a storm today. Else it began sometime last night, I’ve lost all sense of time and meaning. I don’t recall who I am, or where I am meant to be. But I’ll put on this costume and pretend I’m happy, because I know how to hide better than anyone. This mask is like a second skin, I wear it like a chameleon.

In your world you just want the best types of players who get along, put on a smile and know their role, know where to be and how to act. I can be that for you. I can be whatever you say I should be.

I am nobody after all.

Hello I’m nobody. I come from nowhere. I am going nowhere. I have a dream but I don’t know why. It’s not my dream. Someone gave it to me as a prize for making it out alive.

And then. Well then we die. Right. Everyone dies.

But it’s okay because I seem to fit well here. I seem to really blend in with the ambience, no matter where I go, or who I’m with, there I am. I’m home and you are my favourite person, no wait, she is my favourite, you are just a substitute, but you’ll have to do. All of you, I love you and you adore me, until I say the wrong word, or a hair gets out of place, or I get too much in your way, and then your love is a razor blade, it cuts me open and I bleed gold, and the colder you are, the richer I become.

So make me shine, because it doesn’t matter, the glass was already shattered. It shattered long before you or her or anyone else. It shattered inside, and I gathered all the pieces and filled in all the gaps with gold, like kintsikouri, and you said, look at her she is so together, but you had no idea I was a million times broken, and I smiled that broken smile, and you mistook me for one of your own. It all went well until it didn’t go well anymore. For ten solid years I came each day at the same hour on the bell, and then the bell stopped and I howled like a wolf and made my way back to the forest.

And all the dreams I carried in my basket turned into bees, scorpions, vipers, stinging things, that poisoned my pure heart.

Then you spoke in wolfish tones, and offered me your bones in exchange for my body.

And my soul broke off and rose above me, like a hungry bird, a vulture. It circled around me and screeched in my eyes.

Halting. This. Life.

I lost all vision. Blacker than the darkest depths of the stormiest sea.

And when I emerged, I was free.


Filed under Beauty, Bleed, Borderline, Broken, Emotions, Narrative


Can the lizard crawling out from the wall, refuged in coolness be a transformation of the stone, from which it emerges? Is it possible my heart surges with the voltage to ignite a storm, but not the velocity required to light up a city? With enough electricity it could black out the entirety of our world. Lightning crash of black over vision of future. Apocalypse of heart under glare of sun flare. Or is it merely stillness through a crack, where the perception of feeling jolts us back to the presence of this power, thunderclaps through scorched synapses, fusing where the heart clenches, heavy like the fist of Poseidon? Take the heart out of the equation and there is only the still and cool observation of things that emerge and return, seeking asylum from the vagaries of these moods, the inhale and exhale of cyclic energy repressed in the psyche. What does it mean to miss me? What transformation occurs between head and heart when I hear the succour of your voice in child-like tones, asking if I miss you? What does it mean to miss someone who has curled in the alcove of your most ardent organ? What of the restless reptilian that molted through the heart’s eruption and shapeshifted into the skin of a cold blooded amphibian crawling out from the wall on the balcony, overlooking Eden? Would you know to avoid the temptation, else would all the world turn black again? Would the obsidian shores of Santorini crystalize under the sun, whose bright rays lay buried beneath the blistered basalt of a solidified flow? We might never know more than what draws tide to shore, what causes spark to ignite, what kills the light of our universe, yet the mystery of that most vital organ, remains as arcane as the flint of our gaze through a crack in the wall of eternity.

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Filed under creative, Distance, dreams, Earth, Emotions, Greece, Greek, introspective, Loneliness, Longing, Loss, Love, Memory, Poem, poetry, Prose, Relationships, Self, writing

Without You

The whir of the air-conditoner,
the taste of cigarette smoke,
tea, honey, milk,
a warm inner glow, a cool exterior.

The lights from the building
across the way,
myself alone this way.

A book in hand,
opened to a world
that only exists
in my mind,
like you and I,
and our
verbose love.

What about silence
and the body,
with it’s vast vocabulary
of expressions
and meanings
that come as real
and true as this
moment, now
without you?

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Filed under Alone, Coffee & Tea, Crave, Desire, Emotions, Life, Longing, Love, Poem, poetry, Relationships, Self, Silence, Solitude, Soul, Technology, Truth

An Echo, A Stain

Beautiful refrain,
hearing her voice again,
an echo, a stain,
out from the depths of a sensual carnage.
She wrecks me with her cadence, 
(tone & pace)
the lyrical grace of her tongue,
the memory of what it did to you,
what she did, under cover of night,
cover of white sheets, so pristine,
in the same bed we shared years later,
when the wrinkle of time,
unwinds in my chest,
unravels from under me,
as tendrils, pushing me up,
pulling me under.
Pushing me up, pulling me down to you,
soft child of the tides,
releasing poison from her heart,
your cleanliness, makes me crave
no other sorrow.

Sleeping in a haunted bed, in a room full of ghosts,
I choke on your love for me.

“Dead to me, dead to me.
I could never be free of you,
without having to lose you.”

Extinguish a cigarette on her tongue,
watch her in motion under the light,
vinyl hands, overlapping
intravenous music,
skip and repeat, skip and repeat.
Her voice a drop of rain
in the desert heat,
the slow flow of euphoria,
the wreckless beauty of the ones
who left me in their seductive shadows,
finger inside of you, tongue in your mouth, synchronized
with the needle’s rhythm.

Is it possible I feel nothing because I’ve built a tolerance to heaven?

The next kiss or word could be a fatal overdose.

The sunflowers push up
from under your bed,
covering us in a yellow sea.
She stands over us naked,
spitting seeds.

We all have our versions of paradise.

You are mine.

You are mine


You are mine.


Filed under Addiction, Beauty, Cleansed, Crave, creative, Desire, Emotions, Greek, Grief, Infatuation, Jealousy, Lesbian, Longing, Loss, Love, Memory, Needles, Pain, Poem, poetry, Purity, Sapphic, Sarah Kane, Sorrow

Variations on Black

In a world of shallow we know the cost of everything and the value of nothing-
no thing of worth from this accidental birth.

When I came here I laughed.
“It’s a box” I said,
a coffin, “I’ll take it.”

“A box of darkness, a gift.”

I was oblivious to the black scuttle bug living under my counter, it was oblivious to me also. The beetle had flown in from outside and thought he could occupy my place. I caught him trying to eat spilled sugar on the floor, then the black bastard was no more, swept up and flushed down into the waste waters.

For a moment I thought I might meet a similar fate..

voices, bumps in the night, a strange new world to inhabit, “take the belt” it said, “tie it around your door, be here evermore.”

Fuck you black bastard, no!

I won’t join you.

I burned sage through open windows, brushing away the decay,
and since that day, no more,
not often anyway,
only when the world of obligations gets tight around my neck do I think I might hang on a revolving door
between heaven and hell,
all the same.

A moth the size of my hand and white like a ghost flutters by my window,
I hear it’s wings flap up & down,
it’s fascination flickers
in the dark hollow where I drown.

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Filed under creative, Depression, Emotions, Ghost, Grief, Identity, Pain, Poem, Suicide, Verse, writing


Temporary transmutation, permeable, impermeable, opaque & translucent.
You paint my grey sky with dreams of colour! You alter my landscape irrevocably. It is deathless in it’s flight. Black bird of night and scorpions eyes. Everything changes, nothing dies. You are twilight tearing a hole through my cocoon, I feel I can bloom into white orchids, poison your throat with deep songs, right all the wrongs into music that stains silence like an elixir of the soul. I can be the antidote to make your laughter pure like sunsets over tragic world’s, where careless girls dangle their lifeless hands, mute to this orchestra in my blood. Touch me electric, steel blue currents break my pulse, trigger tears. Colour my lips purple with love that bruises inevitably. I want you in me, want to swim in endless oceans of you.


Filed under Beauty, Bleed, creative, Dedication, Desire, dreams, Emotions, Fantasy, Infatuation, Jealousy, Longing, Love, Poem, Soul, writing

Kōna (Snow)

kanakēs- For a brief moment
kaskēyimēw-she is lonesome for her
kaskina- break it off like a twig,
kācikēwin- something hidden.
kām¯wātan-It is quiet,
kāsēcihcē-wash your hands
kehcināho- make certain; be sure,
kinwēs- for a long time
kisin-it is cold.

The cold, brief certainty of silence.
rapidly flowing down stream, within.
The dim solitude of a broken boat.

Orphan child, at the edge of a forest, butterfly spirit, my hands fold inward to my heart, origami bird, snow star love, the great withholding of a dam, (state of vulnerablity,) before we make fire we must conquer the cold. Hidden in the dark, you grow lonesome for the light. Lonesome for her, you pine, lost in a forest of hurt. You wash your hands of her and the quiet kona falls heavy, river caller of the long snows moon, under ice in the woods of a perpetual winter…

love in a frozen state of longing,
crystal cure for obsidian heart.

We depart this way her and I, North and South in opposite directions, the wolf medicine stings at my heels, where the untouchable wound breaks open, all the world thunders in my heart.

bursting open

I cry
I cry

Eons back in time,
when the long snows moon
was new,
before the ice age,
when firebird was risen,
in her orange deception,
I loved her volcano hot
raining white ash

We are ice people,
people of the falling snow,
white clay people
people of the clouds,
river people who hear and see,
fierce people with cold hands
and burned out hearts.

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July 16, 2015 · 4:50 am


My mother is glacial. It must come from eons of emotional tundra, no antifreeze to keep from the below thirty arctic breeze that blows over this country. In winter I wrap my body in a coat of down, the geese have shed their warm feathers for my survival. It’s them or me. I liken myself to a polar bear whose padded steps crush the compacted snow and leave a trail for the others to follow. We get blinded by white when visibility is cut to zero, it’s flailing arms and falling flakes of crystallized beauty, it’s albino city. The skyscrapers are lighthouse beacons in a sea of snow, scrape the windows, scrape my heart, peer out at the drifts of accumulated sorrow, it falls heavy, we’re up to our necks in it, buried 6 feet under without a shovel. The highways are treacherous with black ice, driving is not advised, there’s a windchill warning, less than 3 minutes and your skin will form ice crystals and die, it will blacken beyond repair, like your arms were never there, they break off like chiseled bricks of empty onyx.

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Filed under Arctic, Canada, Canadian, creative, Emotions, Ice, Loss, North, Pain, Poem, poetry, Repressed, Silence, Sorrow, Winter, writing