what burns colours into you?

i have never felt less alive. i am a mockery of who i aspire to be. routine is comforting and great and all, but routine from mindlessness is absolutely stifling. i have never felt less engaged with all that i love- i have not seen art in so long, i have not sat through a hockey game in the longest of times, i have not discovered new music , i have not unearthed new creators, and instead i reread books i’ve read before in a desperate bid to find comfort and emotion. i have not written or created in so, so long. my mary oliver book is overdue because i have yet to find the energy to finish it, yet i refuse to return it unread, for that surely is a sign of defeat. a definite sign that paints out loud and clear: i no longer have time for art in this shadow of a life i have.

this mindless shuffle for greater achievements is unbecoming. this withdrawal from activities that stimulate you is embarrassing.

godamnit, jenn

once again, here’s the century-old argument between fate and freewill

reading old writings always strange, lol. like, i titled this a “century old argument”, but answered the unspoken question explicitly in the last verse. what childlike simplicity in the confidence in our bluster lmao 

once again, here’s the century-old argument between fate and freewill

They all say that fate is gracious that fate is kind,
okay but why, then, why,
is love for only the desperate, the innocent,
and the blind;

They all say that fate is impartial that fate is just,
okay but why, then, why,
do the rich live with diamonds the size of
the morsels of bread for the kids in the Jordan dust;

They all say that fate sees all that fate will know,
yet the zodiac killer is still unknown;
swindlers still live while the innocent die,
and Lucifer’s eyes will remain bright.

They will all say what they say,
while we will all do what we do;
and the truth is, my dear,
fate can’t decide anything for you.



When she was ten,
there was this game that her friends told her about.
Where differently sized circles could be steered around an empty space:
Swallowing up any smaller circles it touched, and in turn, avoided being engulfed by the circles bigger than itself.


When she was sixteen,
she felt like she was the tiniest circle amongst them all.

as we grow, we forget

a note: i wrote this a couple of years ago, and it’s probably visible in the clumsy, forced rhyme scheme and the dramatics of the plotline lmao. but the kiddish pride in one’s own creation, while complicated with the general fear of judgement and shame in putting oneself out there, lingers still. and so an exclusion of this badly titled, roughly written piece seemed unacceptable. and so.

as we grow, we forget

their bodies were fitted, slotted
close together when they were twenty one,
on a single bunk bed in the dorm they shared
with close to zero water pressure in the showers down hall 61.

and their bodies were entangled, fused
close together when they were twenty one,
in the poorly lit dorm they shared
with the windows that faced the another building, that let in little to no sun.

and their bodies were magnetized, tearing
that one time he had to go on an exchange program without her;
and with 2 years left in university-
they knew that 10 years later, these efforts will not be worthless.

and now 10 years later, they are thirty one,
with law degrees and high ranking positions in hand
the respect in their professional fields they fought back to back for
translated to bed-sheets that matched their curtains, hanging over floor to ceiling windows;
to hot water and thermostat heating and king-sized beds with memory foam;
to coffee machines on the left of their marble counter and food delivery menus to the right;
oh and lastly, to the bottle of milk in their fridge, expiry date: the previous fortnight.

and 10 more years later, they are forty one
in a 3-storied penthouse down the 57th in the City of New York.
and they’ve got everything, technically, that they’ve ever asked for;
yet there’s an empty space of high-thread count cotton between them at two in the morning
a gap that only 750ml bottles of scotch can help them breech once more.

you, the being responsible for your own happiness

a note: this one is for you angsty teens out there, ya. i feel u

you, the being responsible for your own happiness

Never say ‘he stole my heart’, ‘oh he took my breath away!’
no he didn’t,
you carved your muscles out of your own chest and then
placed it at his doorstep.
You trapped your exhales into a Ziploc bag and then
set it down by his bed.
He never asked for you to be hopelessly in love with him-
nor did he ask for the drama, the trouble, the burden.
He never asked for the responsibility that is your love
you’ve done that, you and your imagination, all by yourself.


in light of recent developments, this old poem i wrote seems fitting once more. it is, generally, a plea for us to stop judging other people with vastly different cultural, socio-economical, political, and/or geographical backgrounds. the list of human classification could go on forever, but instead of coming to conclusions with little or no complex imagining of their lives — maybe we could just not. the poem’s titled http://tinyurl.com/doyouknowhowsmartiaminspanish, which will lead you to a gifset of a scene of a popular tv show. modern art, y’all. (if this can be counted as art lmfao)


the immigrant-
not illegal-
just an immigrant.
the college credits in her native tongue were untranslatable;
an enclave of extensive vocabulary- unreachable;
and the words that flowed a molten gold in one language,
couldn’t be broken away from their lattice in another.