Archivo de la categoría: Pseudo poetry


He took a look around my room


was declared to be very me.


Stumbled upon my cologne and quickly corrected

himself “No.

this is very you”.


The way he said it, I was already a memory

a fondness

standing right in front of him.                    Was I?


Deemed an inanimate object made me

small and lifeless

and round.


He put it down without even smelling it, as if he didn’t know

W                    H                     Y

he bothered picking it up in the first place.


I now live in his memory alone.                   Am I even flesh?

Some remote mausoleum in the corner of his mind

mere feet away from                       .



Joy in the doing

Joy is alive
it rolls, it laughs
joy grows
it springs expands
where there is room to be had
to breathe
to sow.
There’s none here.
There’s none.
Where is the joy
the joy in doing.
What is this hell
of my own making.