Skip to main content


Through the windows,
I could see the parallel tracks traveling with me.
Rusty brown tracks and pale pink sky made the evening.
To an unknown place,
That's never read in books.
I could see the scarecrows smiling at me with big wide bright eyes.
Cause am the little gypsy.
Am still a young kid with that vibe.
All I do is travel, travel through long days and cold nights.
There are a millions around me but non I know.
I kept my words to come back.
She would be waiting.

I have to walk till I find her.


Popular posts from this blog

"A Sick Boy's Figment memory"

13:12pm January 20th, 2017 these stereotypes, am already sad of my consideration- disqualification- you don't fit into the character- you choose- you want to be, My starboard side is broken- don't know where am heading- insecure enough to drown myself- How many like for the next selfie- I call out the differences over the border disputes- And am on repeat, a single song- and I dance-off to the weird noises-voices, inside my head- Clap boy to the rhythm- to the self you see in the mirror without a vocal fold to shout- concern- bed time stories that I have never heard are in my dreams, These are my figments of memories these days, The unconventional side wakes in me- like a sick boy- stands firm on his libs- open- Make a call and remain connected- the utter darkness you see, when the windows are open- I can't Handle your sense of entitlement- I'm spacing out, isolating from my life's worth- I ask you for admiration- no criticism- pull me up- stop telling me am fine-

The Line

It is meant to be the way it is to be,
deeper it goes, better
cutting yourself with a butter knife, it hurts more,
I don’t want to breath up those things that i got wrong,
I turned on to the wrong pages,

and am stuck in that page itself looking,
somewhere in between the lines,
or the quotes,
or the verses,
that read, “I deserve not be hurt”.

I walked across those thousand pages,
for that line,
but never was it found in the paragraphs,
that never ended, continued with commas,
now I want to write it myself down, on it,

It is meant to be there.
maybe I’ll burn it, or let it go,
release the sickness, be free,
let it be what it is meant to be,
just let be, ride back home and sleep.



Hello, I said hello. Through the microphone, i hear a voice resonate back, A loudness, A crunch between my toes like the bones of sparrows. The cold numbness push on slips away as it's inside. The heresy I believed in never could break down the back talk. As you came like a piece of brack through, they call me a plague. Why still it isn't hang up? She on the other side with shotgun shells in her cheeks interviews my innocents. i barely could follow the pulse. the neighbour shouts, except the only abutting once. the jumbling mess, no more i could stand up with the attitude. saying goodbye, i disconnected.
i burned the town and the neighbour. the silence just before i lit them up with gasoline, was terrifying and fearsome. and the darkness and the ash flooded sky that came after, was as peaceful as lying nude on the pristine beaches of Navagio.
i could feel that gush inside me, free from the strifes and preachy clamourous disturbed people.
hello, once again, through the microphone,…