Sep 04


It is a life and death limbo.
Your brain knew what it's like to be dead.
As you lay,
Muscles relaxed,
Eyes seeing nothing but the backs of your lids.
Ears not hearing the crying of family members mourning a half-dead body.
Not hearing the beeps of machines that keep your body alive. 
This limbo of life and death is unfair.
You are standing at the edge of oblivion, 
But you can't swan dive, head first into the void like you want to. 
You must slowly slip at the hands of others.
You almost knew what it's like to be dead.
Unable to send signals to your motor nerves to make you move.
To open your eyes.
To blink.
To chew.
To open your mouth on your own.
To breathe without the aid of a tube haphazardly shoved down your throat.
Unable to flick your tongue against your teeth to tell someone that you love them on last time. 
You almost knew what it was like to be dead.
Aug 27

Fresh Air

This is my thank you.
I don't know if you'll ever read this,
But I still want to say it.

You opened my eyes to a world full of wonder.

I was a lost kid,
With no hope.
Suffering from my own demons

I needed someone to guide me,
And you came forward and 
Took me by the hand and
Introduced me to a world of art.

You pushed me to take steps outside my comfort zone.
You encouraged me to show my art to others.
I entered competitions because you said I'd be good at it.

You gave me feedback and built me up.
And I did everything in my power to try and make you proud.

I wanted to show you that I was worth all the time you spent investing in me.

I wanted to prove to you that I wasn't a mistake
But also to myself.

Throughout you helping me with my art,
You also built my Confidence.
Even if you didn't know it.

Without you,
Jul 10

Skipping Stones

Sadness is like the skipping stones thrown into ponds 
by little kids searching to steal happiness.

They plummet to the bottom so quickly,
They are so out of place here,
But also so at home.

And they stay there until something is done about them.
Until the Earth swallows them whole again.

You see,
I am like the Earth in this sense,
I swallow the stones whole again.

And it hurts.

And it ends in me crying,

Asking why these little kids
threw their stones
into my pond
searching to steal
my happiness. 
May 07

Ugly At Heart

Slurs are like fastballs.
You never expect them.
You’ll be walking,
And all of a sudden it feels like you’ve been hit in the gut with a bag of stones.
Something you never expect to be teased or harassed about,
Is what you look like,
Who you love,
Or what makes you happy.
Things that should only really matter to you.
Being put under a microscope for everyone to pull apart.
To use against you.
To be the salt in a fresh wound.

People are afraid of things that don’t fit their stereotypical view on the world.
Everything different,
Must be destroyed.
Smashed to bits.

Words slung left and right,
Until the receiver can no longer absorb all the hate.
Like a sponge that has absorbed as much water it could.

Until they are forced to release the hate to feel alive again.
To push someone until they no longer feel like living,
Is absurd.
Mar 30

Body Count.

Another shooting broke out.
More innocent lives lost.
More empty 'thoughts and prayers' sent out to the families. 
Kids who could've changed the world,
Remembered only as a body count. 
Families left in sorrow and without justice.
Not remembering if they told their child that they loved them that morning. 
The event swept under the rug, 
After only seconds in the public eye.  
But nothing's being done to stop this from happening again. 

Since January, 
29 shootings have broken out across the country.
And those numbers are still growing,
And more kids are being added to the body counts.
But the government is still doing nothing. 

The presidents' solutions to stopping school shootings,
Is arming the teachers.
But putting a gun in every classroom only raises the likely hood of a shooting to breakout. 

Because Mr. President, 
Mar 05


More 2am slam poetry by yours truly. 

Why is menstruation such a hush hush subject? 
Like I'm sorry,
But I can't help it that the lining of my uterus decides once a month that its time to pour out my vagina because I didn't conceive a goddamn child. 
I don't see why I have to keep that shit a secret.
But then again, if a man were to know that a woman bleeds out of her vagina for 3 to 7 days once every month.
He'd be like,
"Ew that's fucking gross, I don't want to hear about it."
Like who cares about your opinion.
Literally, nobody asked.
And if you don't like it, 
Well that fucking sucks to be you.
Because this is something I can't control. 
And if you're really that disgusted with periods Y'all gotta think back to your mother.
I bet she was praying for her period,
But got you instead.
And why do men think periods are about them?
I don't do that shit for you.
Feb 27

It Starts With You

A 2 am slam I wrote. It's probably really bad but I figured I'd put it up here anyway.

Since A young age, I've observed from the sides lines how society treats women.

How companies plaster half-naked women on advertisements to sell their products.

Just recently I was flipping through a magazine looking for images to use for a project about surrealism,
And I came across an add for e-cigarettes.
A woman was leaning against the hood of a car dressed in a skirt that just barely covered her vagina and a top that if she were to bend down, her breasts would surely slip out. 

I didn't understand why a company needed an almost naked woman on their adds to sell an e-cigarette that wasn't even in the picture. 
I was repulsed and confused and angry with the advertisement.
So I threw the magazine down on the table I had been working at and said,
Jan 12


I get high on poetry;
and drunk on creating.
It's my drug of choice,
Because the high it gives me is like nothing I've ever experienced before.
My hands get shaky,
My mind clears.
I feel nothing,
But also, everything.
My heart pounds in my chest with passion,
My bloodstream clogged with adrenaline.
My mind works a million miles a minute,
But my body works in slow motion.
My pencil is a syringe,
The graphite, the needle.
The paper, my arm,
and the words the drug.
I roll meaning in paper,
and light it with emotion.
I inhale the concoction,
Letting it settle in my lungs before I exhale my creation.
I grind metaphors and similes into a fine powder before I snort them.
Letting them mingle and match with the words drifting through my conscience.
I ingest detail,
Letting it seep through my being.
Poetry is dangerous,
Once you're hooked on it.
Dec 01

Time Can't Heal These Wounds

They say that time can heal any wound.
That once you can talk about your past,
You know you've healed.

But I don't know if time can heal these wounds.
It's been years but it still feels like it happened yesterday.

I'm tired,
And I don't know what to do.
You said you would never leave me, no matter what happened.
But while I was away you gathered your things and left.

I came home to an empty house that day.
It wasn't fair.
I cried myself to sleep that night.
You couldn't've picked a worse time to leave.

You don't understand what you put me through.
You never will.

It's been years and the only time you contact me now is to fight.

I'm growing up without a mother.
I'm in my teens.
The years I need you most.
And you're not here.

What did I do wrong?
What did I do to deserve this?
Why did you do what you did?
Nov 17


My life is a canvas,
The paints of my palette are the experiences and lessons that I have learned,
And my pictures are the events that come with living.
I am the artist.
I'm the only one who can paint my story.

So why do other people feel the need to paint my life for me?
And why do I let them?

This is my masterpiece, why am I letting these amateurs deface it?

Their bold, sharp, jagged brush strokes stand out harshly against my own smooth flowing ones.

I paint with emotion and meaning.
With veiled images and detail.

I learned to paint with a sharp eye to detail at a young age.
A skill that is only achieved through living in the exposure to the cold, dark world.
I've been through to much for a child.

But their brush strokes,
They're stiff and cold.
Void of meaning.
Lacking in detail.
They haven't been exposed to the world like I have just yet.