A deviation, a migration

I created this blog to share my poetry with the internet. I wanted to know if what I scribbled onto the pages of my journals were fit to be called poems at all. Maybe they are. I have yet to find out.


2019 is upon us in a couple of weeks and after good bout of arguments with my boyfriend about where my writing career is headed, I have decided to deviate from publishing dreary alienating poems. To what? I’m not entirely sure and I don’t think I will be until I begin whatever I think I’ve planned.

I like to read. I used to love to read but maybe that’s why I’ve ended up where I am ; not reading nearly as much as I want to. Booktube has terrified me with it’s ability to read close to ten books a week and collect Goodreads statistics to the jaw-dropping hundreds annually. I don’t have that kind of stamina nor that kind of interest.

So 52 books is where I will start. One book journaled in a week. Every week, I will sit with one person (an author) and hear what he/she has to say and then reflect upon it here. Here is not Tumblr, which is an instantly pacifying thought and here is not the salivating, snarling mouth of a beast waiting to snap shut at my fumbles.

If I get to the end of the year in one piece psychologically, I hope to feel accomplished in some way. If I don’t, it doesn’t matter as long as I’ve gone a few places, seen a few things, talked to a few people. All of which reading is able to provide, in the comfort of my living room & in the hungry spaces of my mind.

From here, I migrate…






all our truths meet in secret to decide who must come out first.

soundlessly they take size of one another.

the truth of the world, the truth that exists outside of us, it is never welcomed at these meetings.

the elusive truth, the truth, the one we die never knowing, it stands shy, naked, without reason.

the garbed truth always prevails.


picture credit : The MET Greek & Roman Art.

remember all this



She’s throwing faeces at the wall. She’s lost her mind. You want to lock her away, give her to someone else. 

She’s throwing faeces at you. She wants you to remember the same way as she does. Can you? 

Hurt, humiliation, torture, agony, numbness & madness. Can you remember all this, Papa? 

Can you imagine the pain you gave her?

Somewhere in her mind, you stand with her in a closed room. She screams as she hurls faeces in your direction. 

Powerlessly, she tries to hurt you too. 



image credit : tumblr