I create figures from sand
At the bottom of the ocean

I create an army of stick-men
In a house of matches

I create an ice
Below which, the sky slithers

I create houses of leaves
In Autumn’s glory

I create empty graves
For each thought I discard

I create a mother’s warmth
For the orphan to cuddle

I create the skin
Which I tattoo with my memories

I create humanity
From shadows at night

I create thunder clouds
From morning mists

I create the fantasies
Within which all these are realized


You may find these verses to be ironic and that is somewhat the point.
Read them from a different perspective, not by what they say, but by what they mean and you will share a glimpse into how I write.

There are many joys to writing, though probably none as satisfying as being able to convey my thoughts and ideas to others through a medium by which they not only understand on a personal level, but are also able to understand it in their own unique way. This path of individuality, all the way from the writer to the reader is the beauty of creative writing, with which comes the freedom of writing. The freedom, to be able to do and say whatever I want, just by using a few words, in a way that actually gives the look and feel of reality, without the parts that drag us down. The freedom of being able to create. That’s what I enjoy most about writing. The ability to create.




(satire poetry)


Come here little one, so lost you seem
Dark and cruel, this world can be
Let me teach you how to succeed

Let me teach you how to think
As character blooms from one’s inner-self
I’ll sow the thoughts that need to sink

 So, let me teach you your ambitions
For my will longs to see you strong
For I fear you wants, your bad decisions

Then let me teach you with what to speak
Since manners cannot run foul
I’ll liven you up in a world this bleak

After, let me teach you where to go
For wandering souls go astray
I’ll draw up the map that you will follow

Also, let me guide you with who to follow
Filter out the words unwanted
To protect you from grief and sorrow

 Why not, let me teach you who to trust
Since such traits run scarce
Better resolved than wanderlust

 So heed my words O innocent child
I enter your life only for your guidance
To tame you up in a world this wild

Surely you can trust me…



Suspended on life’s fragile thread

Slithering, yet watchful of every tread
Patiently still until the light has passed
Scurrying to gather a piece of bread

For this is the life, which we have bred

No promise nor deed is yet secured

For the worthless lives we have insured
While humanity’s essence remains the same
No bodily being has yet matured

For this is the life, we live and endure

Banned men with unseen frowns

Idolizing superiors to whom they bow
For tyranny rules these ‘little’ men

To whom this man was divinely crowned

For this is the life, we are living now

Through all their delicate, hollow claims
They are forced to burden with the pain
Despite injustice, do not flee
Adopting religion for mere blame

For this is the life, that we do claim

Mere creatures self-deluded, damned
Cursing life a “Senseless stand”

Where men dig their sins out of its ashes

To burn them all to dust again

For this is the life, we live at hand

Illogically adopting all worldly traits

No tears shed for love of faith

Yet, death awaits on every breath

All roads in life lead to one gate

For this is the life, which is ordained

(picture credit to the owner, I just googled it)



(An experiment I’ve adopted, posting a quick-paced and hopefully engaging short story in 5 different posts, to keep them shorter, more honest and sweet to read. No one really wants to sit and read over 5000 words of stories while browsing. So hopefully this format can keep the readers more occupied and have them enjoy the story in comfortable fashion)

If you haven’t read Part 1 yet, then be sure to check it out and not kill your own fun



Ellie is frantically trying to shove the door shut against the rush of wind but it keeps pushing back at her. All the planks she had collected were all scattered on the wet floor again. Just behind her stood this huge man poking at a smaller man with the end of his rifle. The small man looks like he’s about to faint. The larger man seems to enjoy this and keeps making grunting noises as he pokes the other man. Papa screams at both of them.
”Cut this crap and close the damn door!”
The big man looks up at him, grinning. Continue reading “THE TRAILS RUN FRAIL (pt. 2)”

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