False Advertising

Oh, January.
I waited and waited
For you because
New year, new me
But you’re false advertising.
You’re an average product
In fancy packaging.
Because the instructions
Read a good night’s sleep
On the 31st means
Come morning,
A guaranteed twist
Of fate and destiny.
All my bad habits gone,
Good ones followed dutifully.
Yet mid January,
Here I am
The same old me.



from the bottom up

ground to the hilt

cemented with

every person I’ve

ever been

painted in blues

and greens and yellows

and pinks

from my dawns and

dusks and twilights

and even my darkest nights

a garden in the front

an evergreen tree

right where my

heart lies

skin like unbreakable

glass stuck to bones

made with words

and letters

thought and spoken

and heard and borrowed

front door where

my lips would be

only sweet things

leaving the building

ground to the hilt

photo frames

where I scraped my knees

french windows

eyes to see

reinventing to become

a safe haven

a temple

just for me.



i’ll tell you what it’s like to be a human.
it’s feeling so much happiness that
every atom in you soaks it up.
it’s laughing giddily,
having no sense of reality,
sitting around in a dim lit room
with your loved ones by your side
and your dreams and ambitions
clutched under your arm
and feeling so deeply loved
and golden that you feel invincible,
like nothing is impossible and
if someone asks you to skydive
at that very moment,
you’d fling yourself from a helicopter,
with not a single worry,
with no care, no guard, no shame,
knowing you’ll make it.
because despite how utterly horrible
you might feel on some days,
one day you’ll be grown enough
to know it’ll pass.
know your parachute will lift you.
because despite all of it
all that you’ve gone through,
you get to have this;
the pure sense of being alive.
that unadulterated feeling of
a beating heart and working lungs
and breathing all the happiness in.
that’s what it’s like to be human.
to thrive and revel.
to laugh till you can’t breathe.
to let go and just be.

A poem.


A word, a phrase,

 A sigh, a face.

It begins.
An immaculate voice,
But a blurring pace.
It comes to you.
Taps on the screen,
Or curls on the paper.
It comes to life.
Rushing, rushing, rushing,
It pours out.
It shapes itself.
A breath stuck in your throat,
Then a huge huff of relief.
It’s real.
He reads it, she reads it.
It makes its way where it’s supposed to be.
It’s made it.
A word, a phrase,
A sigh, a face.
Sometimes it never goes off.
No voice, no pace,
No hitting of waves.
Sometimes you’re dry.
It loses its way,
It takes new shapes.
It stumbles back,
You know when it’s there.
And like everything in nature,
It comes back around.
And it begins, again.
Happy World Poetry Day!




the earth is wounded, our planet needs to heal.

it’s crying out, crying out in fear,

in pain, in loss, in agony. bursting into tears.

is peace and solace, just a mere dream?

can we never walk hand in hand,

shoulder to shoulder, alike, equal?

will we never live like brothers and sisters?

it’s the earth, it’s asking you questions.

will you open up your home? your heart?

your mind? will you be kind?

humanity isn’t dead.

we all feel it,

pulsing, running through

our body, beating hard in our chests.

do unto others as you would have them do unto you.

Jesus, Allah, Buddha, Krishna,

they all taught us the same.

yet, some think they’re the ones to blame?

the earth is wounded

and only we can heal it.




What’s the point if we

all become famous?

What’s the point if we

all become posers?

What’s the point of

having a heart,

if we all chase green paper,

and rumours?

What’s the point if we all

have the same weight and height?

If we all look a certain way,

and do exactly the same things?

Everything from,

the curve of your hip,

to the sharpness of your brain.

From your quick wit,

and the curls of your hair,

was meant to be different.

Embrace it.

This world is beautiful,

and there is a lot to be.

But don’t let it take YOU away.