caged eyes. wandering hearts. lost souls. etcetera and infinity.

like a trigger against raw skin. a slow burning ember digging too deep. a hole in the winter sky. reality is a name we give to our rotten idiosyncrasies. mirrors reflecting strangers too weak to look into  their own eyes. this ailing and troubled world is more poisonous than the blood that flows through our veins.

it's the little things that kill.

your facade fails to deceive (some) of those around you

you are the real thing. you are the music.

you are the break in the clouds. the howl in the wind. the blue in the fire.

you are the blinding spotlight, the aching sun, the volatile moon.

you are the real thing.

everyone else, is just noise.

cursive on paper

(a disorganised collection of thoughts)

new york is home everyone else can leave
a smile can get you further in life
in september everything changes
the brightest flame burns the quickest
i enjoy biking in warm rain
i miss los angeles every now and again
        (but palm trees are boring)
in the digital age we leave nothing behind
        when we die
it's the true blues that i will remember
joint souls will always find each other
fireflies at dusk make me nostalgic
i hope someone carves my name
        somewhere someday

hot child, summerinthecity

It was mid-August and the sun was just starting to descend upon the tip tops of the scorching hot buildings. The light was heavy and unforgiving. The park was radiating the shaking sounds of cicadas , and in the background a young foreigner was carving relentlessly into a violin. There are certain things, certain sounds that become attached to you, they yank you around and revive your memory in strange ways that no one could ever even begin to understand. I sat down on a bench near the shade in case I wanted to move away from the direct sunlight. The air was dense and the ground was wet from a temperamental summer thunderstorm. They never last for more than twenty minutes, and they always make me want to cry. The shape of the clouds, the sun stabbing through, the magenta and tangerine sky all tangled up and twisted. I always feel like I'm in a glass room, all these colors reflecting off of one another. I could sit for hours just staring up, it has always been calming and soothing for me. I watch girls walk by with their gauzy, sheer skirts ripping through the wind, the straps of their high heels tearing into their skin. I feel bad for guys sometimes, constantly tortured by such unknown, other-worldly creatures. Everyone's skin had a slight dew and a golden glow, one of the many reasons I fall in and out of love with the eastern summertime. For a moment, we are all just a little bit more alive..