I don't have infinite words, so I write poetry.

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Photo by Paweł Czerwiński on Unsplash

This is an anthem for the weirdos
like me — the wild and free
unabashedly loving what they see
in the strange terrain
of their crowded, fantastic brain.
Let the world squawk their warnings
kill your heroes
keep your darlings

Make it a dance, avoiding their arrows
and propaganda’s stomping feet
follow the odd rhythm of your own heartbeat
that drummer of conductive tissue
lives to play; will never betray you
belt the feral song of your calling
honey, kill your heroes
keep your darlings

The system loves an innocent hero
someone they can slither up behind
and whisper lies into their empty mind
we need the witty, the willful, the wise
Rebel! Take to the skies!
A punk rock flock of starlings.
Kill the fucking heroes. …


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Author’s favorite glass

The clouds have parted.
Blinding at first, the glow is starting
to soak into these rigid bones
and draw me to the buzz of microphones.

I have a voice — I swear
it’s rising from the depths
of my own personal hell, beware:
I’m an introvert who’s been hurt, and
I have no idea what it’s gonna share.

A rich mine, bejeweled with a lifetime
of untapped, untainted, dark inner-world; hilarious
and about to be unfurled; my tongue
the red carpet (so to speak).
It will stumble and may sound meek
for now — be patient.
Soon…this weirdo will howl.

follow wormwood for periodic weird.


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Adulting is nothing more than becoming our own parents.

I don’t mean turning into your parents, I mean taking over the job now that they’re off the hook.

Because when we pick off all the crusted BS we’ve caked around our sensitive cores, we discover the hard truth: It’s not fear of failure that holds us back, it’s fear of hard work.

That’s the human condition, we’re frail and we’ve invented a million things to help keep us that way. Why? Because it’s comfy AF.

Remember falling asleep wherever you pleased and having some trusted adult — not only protect you with their life — but also cart you to bed? …


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Photo by fotografierende on Unsplash

You are me.
The confidence and fears,
the charm and hidden tears.
Your paint is bright,
your smile fun,
you bring the best
outta everyone

but you.

Because you are me.
And we
are scared.
Of everything.

You are me.
And we
don’t ask for much —
some space
some health
A warm, safe touch…
Is that too much?

No.
We deserve to be.

You are me:
Soul proprietor; underground rioter

We may go unheard,
unseen and demeaned;
and they can burn our books
but our words will sear bright
in the minds of madmen,
and thrive forever as a virus
spread like the wildfire
they were reborn in. …

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