untitled poem

Blurring through days in the carriages of sleepless dreamers, Sitting in the backseat of a burning star, me and her, Looking out into the mists. I once wished - that I could fly, Now I’m drifting, on the ripples of old explosions I didn’t realise that I had missed- my chance to make a wave. … Continue reading untitled poem



Withering colors, in carbonated yellows Rusted green and foaming white, Bubbling leftovers of humanistic pursuit. Rotten corpses of artistic benevolence lining the streets. The scrunched up flesh of unfinished stories, Discarded as fear that their imperfect toxicity might scar a pure white page, Just a bag of waste. Wasted potential Wasted time Waste