I was 19 when I met him. He was too, just a day older, a fact that would serve as a bridge for us, looking for a way to say hello. I spotted him in a crowd outside an event where I was looking for someone else. He turned at…
This boxy is a box. It is not me. When you trap my identity in labels of gender, regional feature, skin colour, this body makes me feel like a prisoner.
Are you chasing compliments, dodging insults, fighting defensively? Are you building your identity propped on someone else’s kudo? Compliments are not about your feelings or you, at all.
They says poets are just plain horny and boys with guitars are just trying to get laid. Well..I am a poet. And I can write in goosebumps scattered across your skin, like Braille for the words-impaired. My language could lie in words all over your body. And making love to…
Everyone else withers away into corpses, but a writer leaves behind a corpus. Reading is an act of timeless love. Be a reader.
If you were born in another era, who would you be? What would your personality be like? Your values? How would you survive that world? What role would you play?
There’s a name for my generation. Children of Baby Boomers who arrived some calendar pages too early to be Millenial. Generation X.
Some nights are a turquoise tango, some days are an orange solo.
If you were in drag, what would you be like? And where does the drag stop and where begins your identity?
“as if the past is a monster, a trap, not a blanket of known thorns, an old jacket that just fits too tight in the same way a corset does”