Live a little, lie a lot

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I prefer reminiscing the peak of dawn,

the scene of myself lying all limp and lanky

after all my energy I transferred

into your lips.

Spent. Unlike the superficial beauty

that I keep alive in my perfume bottle and complexion

to seduce my equally dashing counterpart.


Body of a man.

Face of a woman.


Him? Her? My understanding is blurred

while I’m still drunk on life and nihlism.

I like your big hands, though,

a cheap mimicry of the real package.

Old wisdom told me that

ya ain’t good for me, bubs-!

ever since I dubbed you the ultimate

Generator of Dreams.

But what happens when dreams become a reality?


“Stay,” I sobbed into an imaginary breastcoat

after you smothered me so hard my head swam

in a narcotic pool of my own making.

“Exist. Even if just.

Else I’ll wither.

Lie to me so hard you fail me



Live a little,

Lie a lot.

Split Halves

abstract break broken broken glass
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I trudged around the block




Unbelieving —

Even though I deserved it.

Pandora’s Box, if you will,

Infected my dreams and shining hopes.

There she was in the Land of Ago

Another time,

Another place,

Another whisk,

Another space —

Intermingling with mine.

Cold stiff grace the pavement before me

Like the purgatory that raged inside,

A loop of despair that tugged at

My thoughts,

My dreams,

Ones that were bursting

At the seams —

I was hung in my own existential limbo.

Never mind that first impression don’t exist;

I only know what I know when I am




And finally weeping —

Because finally, your being became my downfall.

But one hour to the next — I am revived once more.

I deciphered your core, for you complete me;

Till our ends meet I’ll keep




Dreaming —

For humble fate calls me to heave hard, and lay low.

Life Is Not a Dream

low angle view of spiral staircase against black background
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Have you ever experienced a time so exhilarating that you hoped it would never end, only to wake up from it and realize it was a dream?

Sure, Tiffany. Of course, Tiffany. Everybody has that. But maybe I’m talking about this because of how deeply it touched me, despite it being a universal occurrence. Ah, the hopeless life an HSP…

Anyways, I dreamed that I met the object of my affections. Never mind how we got to know each other better, as dreams usually skim over such details. Within time, I was play-wrestling on the floor with that person. We were hysterically laughing, cuddling, playfully pinning each other on the ground — my, what a high I got when it was me doing the pinning! And all because we adored each other so much. I felt sense of wild, euphoric bliss that I never experienced in real life. Dreams, man. I swear the good ones make you high.

A voice in the back of my head always questions whether the situation is too good to be true. Well, such was the case now. And thus, a snivel of doubt entered my dreaming mind. The waking world is always so devastating to wake up to. And I was enjoying this moment, as much as I couldn’t make sense of it…

Sure, it could be a dream. Sure, it all feels too good to be true. Sure, only in dreams do you obtain your object of affection so easily. But, in case this is a dream — here a rush of pure love aka dopamine engulfed my brain — THEN THIS IS A DREAM I HOPE TO NEVER WAKE UP FROM.

I think it’s just funny that I knew I was dreaming while I was dreaming, and yet I hoped the fantasy would play on forever and forever and forever…

Maybe this basking in eternal love is a smidge of what Heaven is like?


This monologue. I call it being “artsy” and “poetry.”

You probably know it as, “procrastinating from homework.”

Why You?


Ah — one of my favorite poems that I’ve written.


I don’t know why

From mere memories of you my world

would always reek

I don’t know why

I cling to the crease of your smile against

My teary cheek

Why is my bubble of burning effervescence

Built upon your imaginary presence

Nothing to hide, yet nothing to show


I don’t know why, then

My degrees of heartaches become a-tenfold

I don’t know why, then

Your beating pulse against mine turns cold

This feeble string of fervor I cast between us

Succulent, but superfluous

Only to be ruptured with a savage blow.


And so, I ask:

Why you?

Dreamy-head’s Desire

Fantasy Dream Night Sky Photo Art Stars Daydreamer

Too many interests and potential passions; not enough time or resources.



I stand behind the window of possibilities

Multifaceted identities

I let them flow

Kindled desire

What of me does Fate require

To set these smoking flames a-glow?


Who am I?

I — am a burst of colors

My mind hollers

Atop the world

“Look at me!

Aren’t I a worthy sight to see?”

My confection of dreams unfurled.


Sensing, I am:

My creativity


These carriers need to unload

A physical feat

The pining pen of an aesthete

A mind, unbridled, can explode.


So real…

Except when it is not

This isn’t the life I thought I thought

Nothing I lose, nothing I gain

Reminders are a sinking mire,

Ventures consequently dire

Slap me — I’m wandering again.


Side note, I asked a fellow blogger if they could feature one of my prized poems, “Writer’s Reverie”, on their blog, and they did! You can check it out here

Next stop — The Wall Street Journal! Just kidding. Still! I wanna expand my influence in a likeminded community. Who knows? 

Ushkovo Wonders: The Northern Forest


There’s a summer estate in Russia that holds special memories for me. It’s beautiful, peaceful, hauntingly quiet, isolated, and has the type of fresh air that I didn’t yet find in America. And the light of the day stretches into the evening, as often seen in northern regions.

It’s special because I spent the best parts of my younger childhood there. Many years later, I came back…and the surge of nostalgia was the peak of my summer. Unfortunately, I don’t think I’m coming there again soon. But what I have are memories, and these precious memories I will treasure forever. Cheesy as this sounds, yeah, but I think we all have places we hold dear.


My dear friends!

Ever wonder what place in the world to me is dear?

It existed in my mind, yet so real

My love of it pains and sears.


It’s Ushkovo, the Russian northern forest

In summer, it bathes in a white night

It’s my memories that call me to it

To be there — never out of sight.


I’ve been there

In that everlasting night

Just a few latitudes left

Into a Laplandish night.


Ushokovo was always a scenic mystery

My nostalgic stays there but history

I long for it, drink it in!

My surging blood calls me there as kin!


My memories sifted and sore

I try to remember more

Atmospheric perspective

I take to heart the dearest and its core.


Tip-toeing through the forest and trees

I visualize birch and bark around me

The fresh air oh so sweet!

What I remember! What I can see!


Birds, moss, mushrooms, creek

Signify my secret glen

I could romp in that new world forever

Never worried, never sullen.


One summer house in the midst

Same as the one from forever ago

Tucked between the trees

My house is still the one I know.


Then as I snuggle in bed,

I feel a rumble, a distant whistle of the train

Sound echoes through the still night, out of sight,

Lingering miles through the trees and rain.



Is this place not real?

My love of Ushkovo, the northern wonder

Will never die, will never seal.



I love you like a homeland

You’ll remain, will you not?

Wait for me!

For you’re the one my dreams have tirelessly sought.


Writer’s Reverie


Famous writers and the thinkers got some of their finest ideas from walks. I’m a writer myself, so I see how this applies.


Borne of summer strolls untold

Into evenings where countless stories unfold

The road ahead was void of cars

And I alone played an orchestra to the stars


They shined their blessings from celestial seats

Meanwhile, I looked beyond perennial streets

Pondering clues for my desired path

For answers to a writer’s insatiable wrath


A scent, a sight, a cricket in the stillness rang

And suddenly, my own image, out it sprang

It lived, it breathed, it wandered like me

But would a cold-stone world accept it with the same glee?


I still haven’t caught the muse hiding in evening black

But it’s time I head home and turn back

The gravel below crunched, but it wasn’t me

For I walk the footsteps of another, you see…