I had torn open a wound;
Stitches made of gold
Medicine smeared of silver.
When it bled, it bled sounds;
Sounds of old people talking,
Sounds of young ones panting,
Voices of bright and dark colors,
Voices of you and me.

This wound,
This wound was mine and yours,
A depth measured by the words we fired at each other.

It had healed, maybe,
But I had a blade,
A brand new edge,
And I hacked at the golden threads,
I washed the silver away.

Here it is,
The open wound,
The loud, bleeding wound.

…I’m no doctor,
I’m just an assistant,
A slave,
A slave to my mind.



I’m a broken ship,
Sail stuck in a bottle,
Torn horizontally,
Bleeding air.
I’m the drunken fighter,
Brain fogged up,
Punching into voids,
Pain pulsating through.
I’m a fallen soldier,
Gunshots in my ears,
Blood in my eyes,
Death in my mind.
I’m an empty book,
Pages made of plastic,
Blank, cheap.
But then again, I’m me,
A name, an entity,
A wave of calm acceptance,
A whirlpool of rejection.
I’m without a soul,
Tied up in a bow of satin,
A gift to someone else,
A gift to someone else.


I’m empty.

Every evening after work,
I sit and stare at the walls,
Wondering what to paint,
Wondering where my words went,
Asking the void how I got lost.
And I see,
That I’m empty.

I’m empty,
But they say,

You’re half full. 

They say,

Don’t look at the other half.

They say,

You won’t break,
You’re strong.

But I know;
I’m empty.

I’m full of cowardice,
Full of anger undirected,
Of nonexistent faith,
Of pity at my skin, my teeth, my bones,
My very very core,
My fragile, cracked core.

They say,

Let us help you,
Let us see you,
Open up,
Open up.

But I’m empty.
What do I show you?

I’m only some bit of air,
Some bit of agony,
Some liters of blood and flesh,
And then,
I’m just empty.
Just, empty.

The Master of Puppets.

For my existence to wear out,
I become a shadow,
A silhouette,
Of my past tense. 
With your light
Reflecting on this veil,
I dance, I play, I fall
I break.

You attached strings on me,
On my eyelids,
My palms, my fingers, my toes,
My lips, my chin, my legs, my feet,
My hips, my waist, 
My sadness,
My heart. 

And you pulled. 
You pulled and pulled,
As my shadows made shapes,
My broken pieces bled,
My silent pleas unheard,
For your entertainment. 
Your hands never got tired,
Your imaginations never ran dry,
Your stories, 
They never stopped coming. 

But one day,
My broken pieces
Will be so sharp,
That I will cut your strings,
Poke your eyeballs blind, 
And watch you cry out, “The End!”


Bring me
Things that I don’t want.
Bring me promises
Never made.
Bring me bouquets
Of plastic and strings.
Bring me a bottle of wine
That you borrowed from someone else.
Bring me a love letter,
A blank one at that.
Bring me happiness
And a straw to drink from it.
Bring me smiles,
Bubble wrapped and broken.
Bring me words
Disguised in meaning.
Bring me pretty dresses
With dry flowers on them.
Bring me everything,
Everything I’ve never wanted.
Bring me you,
Bring me you,
Bring me all that is blue.