Tags » Prose 2

This Is Not A Manifest.

Time to sit and process. Take stock of the present me, and recent thought encounters.

I need to look after myself. I need to make decisions in my life that are the best for me, irrespective of how much that may* hurt others. 419 more words



The irony of shooting stars is that they are dead stars, it’s their last ember we see across the sky. And to know that we wish on them is appalling, has it gotten so bad that we cling our hopes on what is  dead? 364 more words


on sadness

the thing about sadness

is that you can’t give it away-

it’s yours to own.

but that doesn’t mean you

should keep it

so let it come and let it go, 16 more words

Creative Writing

funny how that happens

the breeze is slowly turning

a little bit cooler everyday

it’s the same as it was last year


everything’s changed.

Creative Writing

the day that passed.

my voice is not the same, like the silhouette of silent trees, like unfinished breaths, and I forget the rest…


"Red Couch, Black Polka Dots. Just a Couch."

Red couch. Black polka dots. Red couch. Black polka dots. He figures if he keeps repeating it over and over he’ll believe that’s all it is. 810 more words



Her skin was the colour of the finest malt, golden and glistening in the soft glow of yellow-orange light. He lifted her dress and ran his hand all the way down her leg, then lifted it to hook it around his body. 171 more words