Simple Things

It’s the simple things that made her happy
Like sunflowers and puppies.
Like drinking strong coffee in a café on a rainy day
And reading all of Shakespeare’s plays.

Like listening to songs on Indie Air
And dancing in front of a mirror when no one’s there.
Like sitting in the dark and watching the flickering of the fairy lights
Or watching the full moon on a lonely night.

Like laughing loudly in a public place
And denying anyone of their personal space.
Like skipping and singing in empty streets.
And going to restaurants to simply feast.

Like adorning her hair with flower crowns
And occasionally being a clown.
Like smiling in all her pictures
Because in that frame she’s the epitome of happiness from a forgotten scripture.


The Boy Who Saw Things Differently

He said the world lacked colour. That it was grey. And on some days he wished he was blind so he wouldn’t have to witness how bleak it looked.

He said people seemed brainless. Like zombies. Like society would pull strings and we would dance like marionettes. We’d only speak when spoken to. Or when instructed to. Ventriloquist dummies we were.

He said he missed the days when the ocean was still blue. Or when sunflowers were still yellow. Or when there was still pigment in people’s eyes.

I asked him when he last saw colour. He smiled sadly and stared off into the distance.

To Love And Be Loved

I think the problem is that we believe that if you love you have to be loved. Like it’s a rule of thumb. Like love is an equation and it needs to balance out. x equals y. Input equals output. But when did love become this simple?

The truth is some people don’t know how to love. They’ve never loved in their entire lives. Or their concept of love is misguided. It’s corrupt. It’s what society says it is… and society says a lot of shit.

What’s my point here? I don’t have a point. Or maybe I do. Maybe my point is that perhaps we all don’t know how to love and we’re desperately seeking for someone to show us all the ropes. Or maybe we love too well such that we want others to feel the same way we feel for them.

Perhaps we simply believe love is the answer. But the answer to what? What’s the question? I’m digressing, I know.

Anyways, I’m done here.


We need to understand that sometimes we need to feel the pain and we need to feel the weight of the chains that bind us so strongly to the things that hurt us over and over and over again.

That to “let go” is simply an idea we wish to make a reality knowing too well that we need the company and we cannot be on our own when the nights are long and our hearts are worn.

That the mind has experienced more battles than this world and the wars rage on and on like the tempest of the sea as we approach the eye of the storm.

That the more we pursue happiness is the more we realise our lack thereof and the stark realisation hits us that happiness is just a make believe state of mind. It is just an illusion. We’ll never be truly happy. That is my conclusion.

The Flower or The Gardener

“In a relationship there’s a flower and there’s a gardener.”

I’m always the gardener. Or am I the flower? I must be the flower. Why? Because I bloom in such beautiful hues. The gardener loves me and he waters me until his love for me over spills. But other flowers bloom too. And when I’ve reached my peak glow he grabs garden shears and snips me at my stem. I wilt though I was once a gem. And he loves me no more and looks for a new flower to groom.

See? I’m the flower. How about you?

Girls Just Want To Have Fun

Oversized denim jacket and Short skirt.
Expensive black lipstick to openly flirt
With strangers standing beneath neon lights
On a cold, lonely Friday night.

Bad jokes and raucous laughter.
Protests to end rape culture.
Cheap mascara running down her bambi eyes.
Failed relationships filled with white lies.

White sand and sunny beaches.
Bikini clad girls looking like peaches.
Sunglasses and coke filled Styrofoam cups.
Snorting cocaine hours later in a club.

Fur coats and silk dresses.
Red lipstick stains on all the wrong places.
On strangers’ lips and white t-shirt collars.
Doing sinful acts in dark corners.

One Sentence Paragraphs

I ink the words I should have said on every inch of my skin so I am reminded of all my sins and my maybes.

But my skin is not enough so I pour the words onto paper because I can no longer hide my pain, fear and regret.

All the sunflowers in the world cannot mend a heart broken since childhood but they can make one forget the sadness that always lingers and threatens to spill.

All the smiles captured by a camera are never sincere but at least in that moment in that lens the girl seems happy and perhaps content.

Paragraphs are not meant to contain a single sentence but a single sentence is all it takes to reminisce and perhaps shed a few tears as she mourns the person she thought she once was.

A Letter To The Boy Who Stole My Heart

You smell like burnt sunflowers on a cold winter morning. Like a rose bush blooming in the spring. Or lillies floating in a pond in the summer. Like golden brown leaves in the autumn.

You taste like badly brewed lemonade. Bittersweet. Badly brewed, but it’s the sweetest thing to ever touch my tongue. Badly brewed, but I drink it still.

You sound like piano keys and guitar strings. Drums and cellos. Ukuleles and flutes. Beautiful musical notes swaying in the air to tease my ears. A melody on its own.

You feel like milk on soft skin. Like charcoal on dark skin. Like your whole body is made out of stars and you’re a complete galaxy. A milky way in another dimension.

You look like a god. The sun shielding your face by design. Moonlight gleaming in your eyes. Moondust stuck in your hair.


If you could just hold me… hold me a little longer.

If you could just kiss me… kiss me a little harder

Would be I be happier?

*Could* I be happier than I already am?

Would I exist beyond my boundaries and let you teach me how to live?

Or are you the reason I exist? Was I made to please you and bring you peace?

Was I made to be the hymn of your melody?

Was I made to sway to it? If not, then why do I sway to it.

If not, then why am I slave to it? Why am I a slave to you?