Posted in Creative Writing, Writing


New days are never promised,

until the storm is calm,

and assurance is redundant.

I’m a little reluctant,

to wade through rivers and reeds,

born again,

for the thirteenth time today,

destined to be saved by the divine,

just in time,

but wondering why we have to go through this,

every single time.

The star lights the way,

but I still don’t know where I’m going.

I have made this journey,

so often,

that the slabs of the path,

sing sweet nothings to my shoes.

I send postcards to the many places I’ve called home,

anchored to a feeling of belonging,

that never truly belonged to me,

waiting for secure foundations,

that will never be found,

holding onto the hope that they’ll materialise,

manifested by a shy sense of entitlement.

I want to live in a love letter,

where happily ever after is sweet and certain,

drinking from the cup of a King,

who will be kind,


the final destination,


to be happy,

at last,

always comes at a price,

and I’m running out of credit.



Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Nothing Is True

My mother’s womb is the ocean.

I cover my dreams,

and suspicions in foundation.

I have been darker than a doomed room,

broken home that sometimes glistens.

When I listen to silence,

I am breathing in bright rhythms,

paying visits to pacific parts of my heart,

untouched by ugly aspects.

Nothing is true,

when everything is in pencil,



I tell my future,

I’d like to make a go of it,

taking cough medicine,

on a high speed train,

with a clear throat.

I don’t know the location.

The confusion is exquisite.

Never knowing where I’m going,

is a special sort of hell,

where I don’t realise that I’m dead,

until my bones are bare,

baring the truth.

photo of man riding a surf board

My mother’s womb is the ocean.

I washed up,

with bottles and corpses.

I am on a journey,

to a place,

that I’m not sure will be there,

when I arrive.