On my way out the door,
I pause with one leg in the air
to tie my shoelace- I wouldn’t
want to trip on my way out.

As my leg touches the ground,
I peer up at the mirror
to my right- suddenly, I’m

This isn’t my first time
being sucked into my own
pupils in my reflection-
this isn’t my first time
yearning to find that
person looking back
at me in the mirror.

On nights spent glaring
up at ceilings, and on
days spent staring down
the floor two feet ahead
of my next step,
I cannot see the ceiling,
nor do I perceive the floor.

It’s a sensation-
a phenomenon-
which is hard to explain;
I peer into mirrors
again and again.

I need to stop
searching for me inside
anybody but myself-
I’m confident I’ll find me,
my reflection can tell.

Momentary lapse in concentration

I'm sorry for the way
my brisk stride disturbs
the settled atmosphere
of the air around me.

The air did nothing to deserve that.

I felt lost until you found me,
then I left before I could
find myself. 

Now there isn't a leaf, blown 
carelessly onto the pavement, 
that I couldn't disturb with
the weight of my heavy shuffling.

How worthy is a master carpenter
without a developed taste for
art in their work? 

I'd rather be the architect-
at least then you'd be 
immortalized in my imagination,
instead of the cause of momentary
lapses in my concentration.


I cannot write any more

I cannot write any more;
every time my pen
touches paper, it catches fire-
I cannot contain it.

My words glow, then crackle,
then burst alight- for too long
I’ve been riding through this
tunnel, writing, waiting for
the light.

I think of new ways
to repackage old statements,
I’m tired of writing and
I’m tired of feeling weightless.
I hate this. I can taste it.

I cannot write any more
since every time I write,
my words protrude from the
page like
hot daggers and knives.
They pierce me like the way
ink penetrates paper.

The fire used to feel warm
until it grew with my words
and cornered me into
needing to be heard;
the fire used to feel warm until
it burned me to my core.

I’m mesmerized by the flames-
my words animated in smoke;
I cannot write any more,
for I’m fearful that I'll choke.

I write to immortalize
such thoughts and feelings,
but the fire has grown-
it now reaches the ceiling.

I cannot write any more,
the fire scorches my hand;
there isn't much more
I could withstand.

I cannot write any more.


Like the push and pull of the tide on the shore-rocks, our interactions with others smooth the jaded edges of our condition.

My edges have smoothened over time- I can skip across the pond as far as you can propel me; skip me far into the water and watch me tap-tap-tap against its surface.

I’ve been smoothened by this tide for so long, just to be picked up and hurled across the lake where I can find my resting place beneath dark layers of water drowning out the light.

Perhaps to escape the struggle is a misunderstood concept- there is no escape from your struggles, only embracing them- drawing your strength from them.

As my edges have smoothened over time, I’ve become prime for skipping across the lake- throw me far so that I can sink into my eternal resting place.

If you enjoyed this poem, consider checking out my motivational/self-help prose publications here.