Jul 31


My name is Phin.
Just Phin.
It wasn't always my name. 
But before it was, I didn't have one.
I didn't have a name, 
I had a time bomb tied to me at birth in the form of syllibals, of letters,
I had a personal slur in which I had to speak,
And hear, 
And bind to myself in the the form of writing 
And introduction. 
I didn't have a name,
But a barbed wire snake
Sleeping in the back of my throat, 
Awake at a young age
But growing with me,
Sparking more thorns and quicker to snap
The longer the word given to me was used.
The syllibals were feminine, a red flag to my differences when I spoke it,
Yet over the years it held with it
The pits of toxic masculinity,
The need to contrast and to contradict
The prison of letters 
That would become the definition
Of accidental abuse
To anything feminine,
In desperate attempts to be seen as anything but.
Jul 26

You say that you're ugly-

You say that you're ugly-
But have you ever seen yourself in a moment of happiness,
Instead of a dissatisfied one in front of a mirror?
Would you glare at someone
The same way you glare at your reflection?
Have you ever seen yourself laugh,
Not through the angle of a friend's camera,
But from the same spacious, pixel-free world
You draw your breaths from?

You say that you're ugly,
And you claim proof of that from pictures-
But have you considered
That the pixels on the screen
Don't compare to the living, breathing, moving life that you are?

If you hate yourself you will always see
A hateful person in the mirror-
But have you ever looked lovingly into your own eyes,
Have you ever noticed the way your face brightens when you smile,
Have you ever truly looked at yourself
The way the world does?

You see potential beauty as a standalone image,
Jun 21

Mea Culpas

 The man gazes out and past the extensive glass window that shows off to him an endless sliver of outer space, daydreaming about Earth while fermenting away in the multi-trillion dollar New Old-World resort -no, prison- of his own design. The vast, unimaginable plane of space prematurely greys his hair, and deepens the aging creases in his face like a much-walked path. A cigar is pinched tightly between two fingers, burning off to the point of almost reaching his hand, a faint smell of liquor circling around him when he exhales, almost as if it's his shadow's breath that reeks of alcohol. His eyes burn as he sits there, but he cannot blink, or look away from the endless lover's pupil of outer space, in fear that his world will end of he does so. Media-fed emotions expand and contort within his crackling being, attempting to create something human, but instead creating something that is both more and less then emotion.
Jun 15

To anyone who needs a friend:

   To anyone who needs a friend,

   I've recently had to cut off a few old friends because I learned they were racist and homophobic. My friend group has gotten increasingly smaller over the past few months, and now I only have a few friends left. It's weird that the older I get, the less friends I have. At ten years old, I had a large group of friends whom I was very close with. Now, at sixteen, most of them have moved on, or unintentionally forced me to make the decision to let them go. It's weird that people who I thought I knew, people who I loved, and who I thought loved me too, could base their beliefs on hate and unacceptance. 
May 22

désir de mort

We are those who find love
In the muffled click of men's black shoes,
Scandal in the satin of an undercoat
Whispering across the hanger
From fingers of condemned footmen

We find ballrooms as traps
Glittering with breathtaking death sentences, 
Pouring glasses and standing still
As lovers dance with woman

Graveyard weddings 
Whispered vows
Necklace of rope in place of a ring-
Celebrated for the death of a man,
Yet dead for the love of one;
Moth-eaten dinner jackets rot like bodies

We are those who find love
In the darkened shadows of a quiet room,
Cascading into history
As friendship in the whispers of scandal
Is taken as freedoms from the dead

'Til death do us part,
'Til shame finds us dead,
'Til the dance ends, my love... 
Apr 08

Walk the Bone

Apr 01

The Smell of a Street

   Feet rasp reluctantly on the pavement, the soles of shoes long-ago neglected slowly wearing down at the dragging steps; melancholy often takes a toll on ones footwear.

   Breath becomes visible in the cold morning air, swirling out like a snake. Lungs ache. Feet hurt. Hands shake. Head throbs. It becomes apparent to the universe that there is but a lone man walking on the side of the empty street. Not a car passes by, not a person spies him from a window, not even the birds take notice of him. And yet the world knows his dull pain, his lonely stroll. The world knows his life, his death, and the hitchhiking madness that stretches out his metaphors in the roads between.

   His feet move him slowly forward, each step awakening blisters. Time trickles past his mind and through the cracks in his fingers. Time floods, time clogs, time heals no wounds, yet wounds the man's heals as he trudges along. Time has no end, yet ends everything.
Mar 25

How to Eat an Apple (an excerpt from my novel.)

   (An excerpt from my novel, Tone Vestige!)   

   Percy gazes up at the tree thoughtfully. What was it Neccei had said to him about apples? He ponders this for a moment, racking his muddled brain for the memory, then grins, hoisting himself up to the lowest branch. Yes, now he remembers, she had told him that the first bite of any apple is always the best bite. No joke, she had promised.

   What wonderful things Neccei always taught him!

   Percy climbs higher up into the tree, until he is eye-level with a large, red apple that looks quite delicious. He reaches up and picks it, balancing on a rather thin branch that is barely keeping him from tumbling to the ground. He takes a large bite out of the apple, his grin widening as it makes a satisfying snapping sound when his teeth sink into it. Neccei had been right!The first bite of this apple had been very enjoyable. 
Mar 18


As you fall into the tides of her sleeping
You play out the slices of pen on paper-
To kiss the scars beneath her hands
Is to put lips to ink
Ink to sheets
Sheets and scars to blend alike
And curve into letters
That you would send to her through her trance-
But she doesn't dream;
Rather, she traces her fingers through stars,
Her feet dipped in galaxies
As she drinks from the planets and moons around her head
In her celestial rest.
Jan 06

-SONG- Words for an Empty Street (How You Left it to Be)

   how you left it to be.m4a

   I haven't posted a song in a while! I have so many that I'm going to try and record, but this one I wanted to record and post as soon as possible; I'm kind of proud of it, even though at the same time I dislike it -the self-inflicted curse of songwriting. It's supposed to be the theme of a short movie I'm working on, but that's not even close to being done yet, so for now, here's the song! (Constructive criticism much appreciated!) 

Walk to a place
Down in the rain
Drowning in plain old everyday
Pockets and a tired face
Just go along
Ignoring that empty space

Places, things
I can't recall
Done with it all, in a way
Breathing through the empty days
Just go along
Dig deeper a hiding space

'Cause things have a way
Of falling into place