Between The Lines


The quiet is as deafening as it is frustrating.
Blank faces with nothing but blue streak running across their cheeks,
With vacant stares, they express their desires.
I can read between the lines.
They mock me:
“Fill me”
They quietly whisper,
Knowing full well
That I can’t.


Round 2

When it is all said and done,
The path has been lost
The fire has died and the embers are cool,
When the hand is unsteady
And your confidence is as solid as a sandcastle with the tide rolling in.
When the light that once shone bright has grown dim,
And the passion seems to be gone,

Begin again.
Start small.
Take your time.
And begin again.



The beginning of the end.
All good things must.
And bad things must too.
But the end gives birth to new beginnings,
A setting sun gives way to the shinning of the moon.
The harshness of winter subsides for flowers to bloom.

Best Before


I’m going to break convention for a moment. I haven’t been posting as much, life has been busy, and I haven’t been on myself to write as much as I should be. But in the meantime, I did recently have the opportunity to perform at the Living Arts Centre/Mississauga Arts Council’s Best Of Open Mic Night. So here’s a clip of one of my performances. I’ll get back to writing and posting soon.

UPDATE: So since I can’t actually post videos to my blog yet, here’s the link




The day after the storm,
Where the winds have turned to whispers,
Wiping away the last of the tears from the trees
Who bore the wrath of heavens.
The chirps of warning the day before have become
Songs of comfort for those who were frightened;
There is no longer reason to fear.
Flowers bloom and greet the sun above.
Creatures appear, surveying the landscape.
The grass shrugs off the aftermath — collateral damage was minimal.
The stillness in the air is of peace,
Creation no longer holds its breath in anticipation.
It’s over.
The world is quiet here.

The Calm


The fog hangs in the air like a t-shirt left out to dry. The thickness causes the trees to constantly wave to one another, unsure if their branches can be spotted through the eerie weather. Some trees are more frantic than others. Perhaps the are not waiving in welcome, but in warning: “It is not safe here.” The fog is is in no rush to leave, making its mark on all that behold its presence: “I was here, do not be so quick to forget.”
To escape the looming doom from above, the water leaves its home in the sky and seeks safety in the trees. They offer no refuge, but encouragement: “Continue to flee. Down below; find safety below!” and releases them to resume their descent.
In near silence this transpires, the only sound from the breeze, on guard for suspicious behavior: interrogating the trees, testing the defenses of nature.
They are waiting.