Tag Archives: thoughts

Interstellar Lovely

Interstellar lovely, with the plaited halo down your back

You make me kinda crazy, you beat my flaxen heart to black

With the way your bow lips move to make a spinning retort

Colliding with my asteroids, tonight’s forecast screams abort


Interstellar lovely, won’t you give this girl another chance?

I may not be too pretty, but I’ve still got a fighting stance

Crooked glasses and stray sweater sleeve driving me insane

But she’ll shoot past the stratosphere before I could say her name.


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the brightness of life

and at the end of

this asphyxiated

sunrise, what do

we have to gain?

was it a sense of

clarity, or simply

arrogant shame?


cross the threshold

hitting dead centre

the dark flags that

sheathed your eyes

will taint gold vision

with another kind of

negative space answer


because what was

left to pain, but all

the ones that were

cruelly left behind?

pretending empathy

while erasing names

off our fragile minds


too far lost to save

and recovering only

twisted histories and

rewriting our miseries

do you feel that sense

of serendipity, or do you

simply feel the same?

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you ruin

every good

secret i have

but i try to

ignore it


it’s better to

just grit my teeth

than to let you

bite back with

your half-wit.

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Cosmic Comatose

ʟᴏᴠᴇ, ʜᴜɴᴛ ᴍᴇ ᴅᴏᴡɴ
ɪ ᴄᴀɴ’ᴛ sᴛᴀɴᴅ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇ sᴏ ᴅᴇᴀᴅ
ʙᴇʜɪɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ᴇʏᴇs
ᴀɴᴅ ғᴇᴇᴅ ᴍᴇ, sᴘᴀʀᴋ ᴍᴇ ᴜᴘ
ᴀ ᴄʀᴇᴀᴛᴜʀᴇ ɪɴ ᴍʏ ʙʟᴏᴏᴅsᴛʀᴇᴀᴍ
ᴄʜᴇᴡs ᴍᴇ ᴜᴘ
sᴏ ɪ ᴄᴀɴ ғᴇᴇʟ sᴏᴍᴇᴛʜɪɴɢ…

am i insane, stars?

i made exposed promises to you that i am far from keeping,

melted cosmos and calliope leaking from the corners of my eyes

as his fickle thought is ever missing from the warm embrace

that you provide, only for me to find out that it was just a lie.

flowers grow from my pink bones, the longer i starve myself

and soon enough i have a lithe bouquet with a pretty bow

thorns and boughs left in virgin snow, where heavy cherry

blossoms couldn’t hold out ’til spring to shake off the cold

like me. like me with my corrupted lungs and corrupted lovers

and mute corruption in my light, so much so that when it passes

through the stained glass windows of our unmarried chapel, all i see

is grey. and yet, i still pray. i still cast my bruised eyes to the ground

and wipe away the profanities from the corner of my mouth, where he

left them festering, evergreen, so sweet, bittersweet—where he never

was at all. but god, he didn’t cause this! i caused this, most this

lost this, i took the losing chance and loved until my bastard heart

choked with dopamine and plasticine and oxytocin and strychnine and

still…and still! it just wasn’t enough. no. all i could see is the faint outline

of his hands and his cloying laughter and his blurry eyes so blue you’d

have thought an ocean was trapped beneath it. i would know. i would

have drowned. maybe i’ll still have drowned. i’m already drowned.

skin. finite. nothing. the current that carried souls along to solace

love in the time of scarlet fever, and him, and him, and you? and you.

nothing more. nevermore. neverwhere. we’re all here, now.

so tell me this, stars. am i insane? or am i just too human for my own good?

ɢɪᴠᴇ ᴍᴇ ᴛᴏᴜᴄʜ
‘ᴄᴀᴜsᴇ ɪ’ᴠᴇ ʙᴇᴇɴ ᴍɪssɪɴɢ ɪᴛ
ɪ’ᴍ ᴅʀᴇᴀᴍɪɴɢ ᴏғ sᴛʀᴀɴɢᴇʀs
ᴋɪssɪɴɢ ᴍᴇ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ɴɪɢʜᴛ
ᴊᴜsᴛ sᴏ ɪ, ᴊᴜsᴛ sᴏ ɪ
ᴄᴀɴ ғᴇᴇʟ sᴏᴍᴇᴛʜɪɴɢ…

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Cursed Land

Enduring stains

On their palms

Soil and mud

And the green

Of woven grass

Like agitated vipers

Silent warning

A hiss before

Soft flesh sinks

Into cold fang

Venomous desire


Crimson brown

Draws landscapes

Tasting famine

The plants starve

For fresh blood

For bodies to till

For man’s plague

To ravage and

Devastate all, until

All that’s left are

Old desert skies and

Enduring stains

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pseudonym [3]

ask me about what

nevermores do mean


darling, quite critical

yet polarising on whim


catatonic with fright

illegitimate prophecies


zodiacs and star dance

ephelides as you’ll please


kisses, but nothing more.

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A Tired Incoherent 2 AM Rambling, of Some Sorts

Headphones playing some hell grinding djent, tucked sloppily on my pallid cheeks. Chocolate flavoured coffee, swimming with drowned ants and turning stale on the corner table. Me, splattered with filthy liquid and desperately pulling an all-nighter on an ugly portrait painting, as the initial panic attack-induced mania that once fueled my motivation slowly wanes and quietly saunters away to Apollo’s Neverland, probably carrying along with it the remnants of pencil shavings and biscuit crumbs on the utter devastation I call my desk.

I think might be going insane.

Well, this is what I get for procrastinating too much, I suppose. My personal crippling folly—apart from being tardy without fail no matter the urgency at hand, and being unable to function normally around human society in general—is to stall on accomplishing a crucial task for hours until it turns to days and weeks and heaven forbid months and so on and so forth, while putting all my wasted faith on the completely false hope that I’ll be able to pull through at the very last minute, with the right amounts of heart-stopping caffeine and unbalanced brain cells kicking up a hurricane named anxiety in my thick skull involved. Even though I know it would never really work, and I’ll just inevitably end up with a lot of lowkey physical and emotional trauma and a below-subpar output that’s so far out from my initial expectations that it’s not even fit to be used as a local public loo arsewipe.

Ladies and gents and everyone in between, there is no mystery left to solve in the unbaffling case of the stupid college dropout, is there?

I mean, I swear I actually do want to finish this (if not for myself, then for the damn person I’m breaking my strained neck for because they’re awesome and deserve this much at least, they really do) but hell, why do I even try at all? Fuck’s sake, I’m not an artist. I don’t know how to actually properly draw or do cool mindblowing artsy things for shit. I’m just too fucking unskilled for that jazz. Pretending, that’s what I’m talented at. Pretending to be pretentious. Fake it till you still fake it. And now look where it’s gotten me.

👏 Absolutely! 👏 Nowhere! 👏

God, I honestly wish I could trade places with my cat right now. Or any cat, really. Lazy bastards, doing nothing but eating your chonky hearts out and scratching at things and oversleeping all the time and being a dumb bitch and looking cute and snobbing everyone out and living a luxurious life for it. Career goals right there, let me tell you. Why can’t I just be one of y’all.

But I digress. It’s time for a time check, no phun intended (okay, that second pun was. if you catch my emo drift, ahah). 2:57 AM. It’s been roughly more than three hours since I first embarked on this personal little project, and while I’ve barely made a dent on the soggy watercolour paper resiliently taped down in front of me, I have spent maybe a quarter or so of the aforementioned hours typing this…whatever this is, down on my phone like a sad, lonely sack of slowly-rotting flesh. More than ever, the familiar, almost comforting sensation of self-resentment weighs in heavily again; on my sandpaper tongue, down my badly-crooked and aching spine, on the perpetually unfading dark circles under my exhausted eyes that make me look like a wasted panda and an actual roadkill raccoon fucked around with each other and threw hands (or paws?? idk) in a nearby dumpster and I’m the end result of their bad night. Fun times.

Wait, hold on a second. Idly slacking off, hating myself severely, and quickly losing grasp of my humanity and better sense…all three of them simultaneously? Awesome. Right on schedule. It’s time to get back to work.

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long gone

i swear,

it’s not the

same paradise

safe to say

that i won’t be

safe to forget


until you leave

my rusty nerves

and steal back

the soft bruises

you created from

broken planets


i swear,

it’s all fine

until you quickly

stand up just

to give me more

reasons to trip


but i know

i cannot have

anything else

anyway—i guess

that you’re my

only deathwish.

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Save me the hindsight

Save me all those bullets

Save me that white lie

At the tip of your tongue


Save me for the last time

Or save me for another

Like rainy days and sinners

Go save me for seconds.

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Noontime Naps

After breakfast. Lukewarm coffee. Leftover splatters of gouache on the messy desk. Slow internet connection. Haunting melodies resonating from twisted headphones. A yawning kitten resting on a restless lap.

Pauses. Outside, a chirpy radio jingle. Wooden sticks hitting against billiard balls. Idle street chatter of unfamiliar passersby, falling against the grind of tyres on concrete. Drenched in drizzling showers, a hazy town on Sunday morn.

Breathing in. It’s okay, the afternoon promises you. It’s okay.

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