Wrong Love

There are a lot of things wrong with this world but I refuse to believe that my love for you is one of them


showering while high

I can feel each drop,

Quenching the thirst of my skin

I can hear each drop,

Hitting the floor, like rain on pavement, or a roof, perhaps

I can smell each drop,

Similar to the dew on an early, autumn morning

I can taste each drop,

When I’m filling my mouth in a futile attempt to rinse the taste of shampoo from my tongue

But I can’t see each drop.

I wear glasses.

They don’t work in the shower.

people who will know of my death:

I know _______ will know when I am dead.

  • my mailman (he will notice the mail collecting as the days pass by)
  • my parents (they will notice the lack of my calls)
  • my sister (refer above)
  • my friends (they won’t hear my hearty laughter anymore)
  • my teachers (they will notice the absence of my questions)

I am impactful, no doubt.

But will anyone care?


I’m sure you have noticed.

Commas are a frequently used favorite of mine.

Commas marry two independent clauses together.

And just like that.

People, too.

Two separate beings, joined together, whether by love, friendship, or whatever else bond exists in this world.

Sometimes people forget this.

Sometimes I forget this.

Before we can be of any contribution to any relationship,

Let’s not forget that we are individuals, first.

t r u t h

Is truth subjective? Objective?

As a science major, I am obligated to stand for the objectivity of truth, that there is one, same truth for everyone.

That’s not necessarily true though,

Is it?

The human side of me, the compassionate, the understanding, the tolerant side of me knows that no matter how many times I say truth is objective,

it doesn’t matter.

That’s not the truth.

The truth is, well, up to you.

What do you believe is the truth?



What goes on through their minds, as they dwell on the colors and pigments that mix wonderfully, like water and salt (due to their likeness in polarity, of course), or as they ponder the subject of their next masterpiece?

How do they even begin to try and translate the vast beauty of this world into a small, 6’ by 11’ canvas?

Water Lilies, by my buddy, Claude.

The vibrant greens and blues, violets and reds, flirt with each other, almost competing for dominance.

This effort, this match, goes unnoticed by the viewer, of course.

Instead the onlooker is attracted to the soft, pale white space, that taunts the eyes of any spectator within the vicinity.