(You missed the party.)


I was in my room all bloody afternoon

Everything was too much

I was hoping for the moon

To give me that loving touch

You said I missed the party

But little did you know

I was having my own

Old friends, out of the blue paint

My stomach was filled with

I should’ve seen it coming

But nothing beats a surprise party

At least, on the bright side,

I’ll fall asleep tonight

Sometimes, punctuation hits you hard am I right? At least it’s over now.

Sunday was something but, on the brightside tomorrow’s Monday and that’s as good as any other day that isn’t today.

Ready for the next week, everyone!


Until next post, take deep breaths, you’ll be alright. ❤

Color Me Undead: a poem and a drawing



Sunshine is a false friend.

The weather never stays the same inside this hurricane:

Sky’s grey, then blue, then white;

There’s sun and then it rains.

I just never know when it’s safe to rest.

I gotta keep on the move

Always, even when I lose my groove.

Paint me, pain,

For I am a canvas

And I’ve been blank for too long now.

The ground isn’t very stable.

I keep falling in these muddy puddles.

They take away my colors; leave me numb.

Mean cycle; recycle…

Mom, rock me back to my cradle.

Sunshine is a false friend,

The storm it never ends!

Paint me, pain.

Paint me again,

Over and over again.

Give me a face.

Give me hard times.

And, please, leave a trace.

Weather forecast calls for the peeling of my soul.

Layer by layer I melt away

Under the merciless waves

Of this self-perpetuated hell.

Acid rains devour my core.

I barely bleed as I lose my skin.

Colorless; colorblind; who am I?

Paint me, pain.

Help me be again.

Show me I’m alive,

Not living in vain!

Show me who I am!

Show me that I can

Be more than a stain…

There’s still blood in these veins

And strength in these legs.

And next time,

When it rains,

Come back faster to me, friend,

And paint me sane & chained!

Color me undead;



The drawing was fueled by Halfnoise’s EP The Velvet Face and Paramore’s latest song(which I’m so asdfghjkl about). So I was really feeling that colorful but mournful vibe. Which was already pretty strong with my post Pain is a color and I’m a rainbowAnd the first draft of the poem was fueled by the drawing. And then the real thing was fueled by the storm and insomnia and also eating a green apple past midnight.

It’s 4AM, I’ll try to catch some Zs now. There’s so much I need to say; I’ll try to write a post and let it out, maybe this week, maybe later, I don’t even know anymore.

Until next post, don’t eat apples after midnight and get some sleep ❤

Pain is a color and I’m a rainbow.


Darkness isn’t necessarily black. It is not colors that I lack but a darker shade of black; or maybe a bottle of Jack; or stronger bones in my back…

I wanted to make this a poem but it seems the shaking in my mind cannot handle structured writing, so I will have to let it be whatever it decides to be. I will let my fingers type these confused thoughts of mine and stain my white keyboard with the poisonned ink that leaks through my broken nails. Ain’t that just the way it always goes anyways? I am nothing more than the puppet of my own thoughts.

I’ve been thinking about darkness, as in the spots that cover my heart and soul; the pain, the silent wounds, the invisible scars, the bright crevasses. And again, my brain has sewed another fancy disguise for my bleeding soul from the tasteless word-stew that simmers forever in the back of my mouth. Because this blood never lingers on my flesh and shimmers better than when I hum these word-stuffed melodies. I can watch it dance and rejoice as I praise it with my dark poetry, the only music I can create.

Darkness isn’t necessarily black. I can tell because when I look inside, I can see the colorful polka dots adorning my soul.

My best friend used to call me her rainbow, I have lost track of her reason why, but today I have found my own. If I’m a rainbow, pain is a color and my thoughts are artists. And, of course, I’m holding the bigger brush and when I’m not poking my eyes with it, I paint the biggest patches of colors and take care of any needed touch-ups.

My heart is the color of the sky, a blue that gets deeper at night when my soul is an ocean where demons can’t drown.

My hands are the color of fire, a red that gets deeper when I wrap them around my neck tight enough to shut me up.

And my green-tinted smiles they’re here to hide my rotten faith and hopes.

My head is a mess right now. I was already dealing with the storm’s unexpected come-back and now I have all these doubts and whatnots coming uninvited to the party. The place is too crowded, it’s hard to breathe and I’m losing sleep again, and weight, and strength, and hope, and faith. But, believe it or not, I somehow am in better shape than usual. I mean, I’m a mess and this is very heavy to carry around. But I still feel like I’m handling it better than ever before. But maybe that’s just another illusion.

I’m glad I got that out. I had these few lines lying around for a while now and I just had to get them out. They’ll remain here for now. Maybe they will later find home in a poem or a song, if I ever birth one of these again.

And let me just add that, as much as this sounds dramatic, too dark or whatever you wanna call it, I’m a very positive person. Don’t get me wrong, I ooze darkness and cold coffee; but I still shine, even when I shine dark. I might even be the most optimistic person I’ve met so far. I mean, if you trim all the excessive use of words, the dark tone and all the dramatic poetry, there’s light here! Not because I admit and often emphasize the ugly and darkness of certain things (mostly me) doesn’t mean I don’t see the beautiful. I actually, sadly(there it is again!…), see it everywhere.

I don’t like being called a pessimistic or a fatalist or whatever things you people can come up with, because I’m not. I see the light and the beauty in places you would never even think of looking, and I don’t give up even when I do; so shut up with your labels that don’t even fit. And to quote that Paramore song, “For a Pessimistic, I’m Pretty Optimistic“.

Cherish your pets while you have them and water your plants. ❤

Autumn rain, painting&poem, 01.21.17


Finished that painting today. It was pending since at least October and I’m so glad it’s finally over with cos I really need to feel like I’m moving forward, especially right now.


So, it’s acryclics on canvas, the usual A4 sized canvas sheet. The only thing this time is that I mixed the paint with some moulding plaster for the leaves (I tried to zoom in on a bit for you to see).

See, I had bought this rather big (not so much but compared to the size of the only moulds I have, quite a bit x) ) plaster bag a while ago and I finally came to the realization that I needed to get rid of it fast and that mom’s tiny moulds would never suffice. I thought about using it to get some texture with my acrylics which I still lack the technique to achieve “naturally”. I looked it up on the internet before doing it just to see if there were some steps to follow to ensure that it lasts or doesn’t break or anything, and I, of course, didn’t follow any of them because meh.

This being my first try, I’m not exactly satisfied with the level of texture that I achieved although I still think it’s pretty cool. The pictures won’t really show it though, unless I take close ups like the above. But it’s really interesting and I still have enough sheets and plaster to mess around some more with it and maybe even make something cooler!

I do have another “plaster painting” on the way which has been pending for pretty much as long as this one BUT might turn out better in some ways. Idek we’ll have to wait & see!

Anyways, the inspiration didn’t stop at my last brush stroke on this one; I also managed to write a poem to go with it! YAY RIGHT?

Autumn rain

Green is old

Yellow leaves

Leave the trees

I fall on my knees

And watch the bodies fall

Rain from a lower sky

Colors that refill my eyes

I think, here it is the Time

Where all things must die

Of a death that brings life

Orange drops

Red, brown dots

I grieve all alone

In the blazing cold

That rinses my bones

Turn the page,

Autumn rain.

Turn my page,

Make me new again.

Wooden towers

Fire showers

I now stand under

Waiting for the light of winter…

It’s 12:26AM and I find myself incapable of thinking so I’ll leave you just like this…

Until next time, don’t forget to brush your teeth! ❤

What am I to others?


Does my existence affect others’ life as much as theirs can affect mine? I  hold on a lot to people, whether it be strangers, half-strangers or people somewhat close to me. Like that one guy I used to see every time I ate at my university’s cafeteria last year or just a few people I go to class with.

But they aren’t aware of that, they don’t know that by simply existing they help me fight on, breathe a little longer. When I’m feeling “down” (to put things in simple terms), when going through another day sounds very near impossible, these people actually lift me up without doing nothing but being alive. I can get out of bed and think “oh, it’s okay, I’ll be sick at school but at least I will see duck/I will be with duck“(not real ducks, just cooler than “xxx”) or “I don’t really feel like going out but if I walk I’ll see ducks when I’ll cross the park and that’s awesome”(real ducks, real fucking ducks everywhere).

Familiar faces and familiar voices. I suppose that this is why it helps, because it’s the same, always, it’s something that seem to stay constant and it feels good. It feels good to know that I will see the same face even in a Monday’s hell; it feels like I’m not alone even though that person probably doesn’t see me at all. It can sound silly or maybe even sad but as long as it keeps me fighting it shouldn’t matter, I guess. I hold on to the fact that I can see the same face in a same place and even if it’s not enough to stop me from shaking, it still helps me be there no matter how much I dread the moment my mind will start freaking out.

And, lately I’ve been wondering, am I like that for anyone? Do I matter this much to anyone? Am I the reason someone gathers strength to get out of bed every morning to go somewhere where they hope they’ll see me? Could I be someone’s motivation? Could my existence be the thin thread someone out there holds on to in some way or another? Am I someone’s reason to smile? Do I bring some kind of light into anyone else’s life and how bright is it? I can hardly conceive such an idea, but hey, it’s not impossible.

I can’t help but wonder if it’s the same for other people. I wonder if I’m the reason someone goes to school everyday, if I’m the reason someone keeps fighting. It sure feels nice to think that you could be someone’s (far away) light in the dark, makes you feel worth something. But it surely feels unreal above all.

And then, if I do matter in this kind of way to anyone, I hardly believe that they would say it to me. I know I wouldn’t, because I don’t think it would make a difference to them to know it AND I’m scared they would stop being helpful if they become aware. So I’ll just keep wondering… What am I to them? What am I to you?

Dead Ink



My words mean nothing

When they lie on the paper

With my eyes for only reader.

They taste good but they are dead.

Unspoken melodies,

Silent mysteries,

I see them, savour them,

But they mean nothing.

Only syrupy corpses

When kept to myself;


My words are nothing;

All dressed in black.

My notebook is a coffin.

Lifeless, soulless ink,

Empty, lacking

Something they find

Only when they meet your eyes,

Your ears; your mind.

Without you I’m nothing,

I mean nothing,

So make me something.

Read me, hear me, see me…

These words are full of me;

If they are dead then it’s a “we”.

Kill the silence, fill the gap.

The rhythm in my heart, bring it back.

You have the keys,

Don’t close the door.

You breathe life into them,

You breathe life into me,

As you collide

With my pen’s dried blood.

Until I speak,

Until I sing,

Until you meet,

My words are just dead ink

Resting on dead trees.

Pieces of me to be shared with you.

Truth is I exist because of you.

Had the title for this one written in my sketchbook three weeks ago.

I was having a nice chat with a girl I know on Facebook when she told me she was considering sharing her writings on the internet but was a bit reluctant to do so.  I, of course, explained to her that she shouldn’t be afraid because she could receive constructive criticism and just simple feedback which was a very good and helpful thing. But my main argument was what lead me to this title and to this poem.

I strongly believe that art doesn’t become art until it’s shared with another soul. Your words don’t mean much when they’re on paper but as soon as they meet someone else’s eyes, they come alive. A poem that you don’t share is just like a page from a personal diary.  Until you put yourself out there, you don’t stand out; until you share pieces of you, they don’t really breathe. They’re just like secrets, like really beautiful jewels that you keep preciously in a wooden box so that no one steals them, so that it doesn’t get a single scratch or break… But these jewels could look even more beautiful under the sun, and shine freely.

I believe that art has to be shared to be art. Even if it’s just your mom or your sister, or just your friends, it’s still someone else. The magic happens when what you’ve created from pieces of you meet someone else, and creates reactions in them, feelings and so many things. It’s a lot about sharing, that’s what I’m saying. When you share, the magic happens and art happens.

I believe that art is not only self-expression but the transmission from one soul to another of a message whether it be “I’m angry my girlfriend lied to me” or “I love eating raw radishes” or just a random story about you going to the laundromat and writing a poem. (Yes, those are all examples I have experienced! Haha) Art is about saying something, giving something, and to give, you need someone to receive…

So yeah, it had been sleeping for a while in my sketchbook. And today as I went to the laundromat with my friend Leslie, I managed to write and finally get down my point of view on art. I’m really happy about it because it’s heartfelt and I’ve been waiting for a little while to get it out! So I hope you enjoy it!

Gritting teeth


I said things, meant things,

That I still do mean.

Words I spat onto paper

Printed on my mirror.

You hurt me so I meant mean things

That I still mean; it stings.

I need a cleansing.

I wrote things, did things,

That destroyed me.

This venom I spit so easily,

It had to be drained,

It had to be scrubbed,

Off my running mouth.

So I went to the bathroom

And did all that I could

To get it out my putrid wound.

I grabbed my toothbrush,

My scavenge tool,

And I scrapped my gums,

My dirty tongue,

Until that gaping hole

Was filled with blood.

And there was so much that

I couldn’t help but

Swallow it all.

I gulped it down!

It left my mouth,

I feel it now,

Running freely

Through my venal veins…

And I sit here, in the dark,

Waiting for it to reach my heart,

Where it’ll perhaps light up a spark.

To go back to the past


Wind back.
I wanna walk in reverse
And fall back in my nest
Where warmth filled me
This morning,
Where I felt safe
This morning.

Present, don’t last!
Give me back my past!
Present, die fast!
I’m missing my past…

Wind me back.
Back to the me that didn’t shake,
Back to the me that still felt sane.

Drag me back to my nest,
Help me fall in reverse.
Someone stop this.
Don’t let me be here.

Sing me back to sleep.