Monochrome Me

Ask / Not Accepting Requests For NowArchiveAboutMy Writings

Anonymous asked - "Do you have any poems about a lack of love? I've never had a relationship or been in love but I read beautiful poems about love and loss and I get so curious and feel so empty...your words are just so expressive of the human experience"

Yeah. Just about everything I write.

Misinterpreting Dreams

If I Were a Fiction Writer

Something someone told me

Something by Sylvia

Everyone leaves you.
Darling, you’re a city still standing
after the fire’s burnt out.

"you are what happens when deserts learn to weep."


"who is this boy you keep kissing in your poetry?"

How to Keep Your Insides Inside


When she left, a hole the exact same shape of her smile appeared on the surface of your dusty heart and at that moment, you felt one with the celestial bodies like when man first set foot on the moon. But unlike the moon, you find you aren’t filled with rocks after all, and instead find two-parts hydrogen, one-part oxygen and just enough parts of pain to weigh you down heavier than lunar rocks ever could. No wonder they just float about up there.

Now you’ve become some kind of a human waterfall. In no time at all, you imagine white coats knocking at your door, asking if it would be alright for them to study this unusual phenomenon that is you, if this is all fatal or contagious, or even cancerous. The whole world would see you on the 6 am news and again on special reports while they’re having a quick lunch break right before heading back into the office, then a rerun at 7 in the evening. They would point you out to their children and it would feel like fourth grade all over again.

You’ll see yourself in magazines, half of them would be about you reduced into words, the other halves, divided into a series of advertisements and pictures of what’s left of Mesopotamia. And you won’t even let yourself get started on the morning paper.

Because your world crashes down all around you and it’s not as loud as you thought it would be. Because no one’s knocking on your door now and the phone’s been silent for three months. Because the moon rocks brought into earth are actually the size of your fist and the only thing on the news is war in a distant land but at night, you swear you hear your scream amongst a cacophony of other screams and gunfire. Because the only rerun on television is some 90s cartoon show and you know full well magazines don’t publish that much about grief anyway. It’s far too common, they say.

Because there’s no way to ease the pain. Because you’ve got to understand that this is a bruise no ice pack could heal and this is a room so dark, no chandelier could ever light it up, unless we dance about throwing kerosene on the walls like throwing rice at the newlyweds and we burn this house down to the ground. In its place, we shall grow some peonies. So just let it wash over you one wave after another until, you wake up on shore with the sun on your face. Cough up the saltwater, dear, you wouldn’t want to drown on land and let me wipe that dirt off your brow.

for the anons i’ve been receiving lately

Charcoaled Cheeks

set wilting flowers with a bright smile

sketch hearts on curling paper scraps for him and

steal carved needles by dark.

“Stay away from him –

He pulls strings with no puppets at the end.”

the other nurses wore white on white

like the ceilings and floors,

screams and sharp chokes.

hard cuts on soft hands,

straight lines piercing bones.

the sky is a violet


red and aching

scattered leaves and broken twigs

bruises upon lip-stained skin.

trace braille for the songs in his mind

rub charcoal on your cheeks

the hollows of your eyes –

he trips on wires,

a dead noise.

a rope sunk with the ghost of his last voice.

Lovely piece submitted by redstatic


Right now, this city
is a fish tank
and I’m the nine
year old waiting
for her dentist’s

Honestly, every
thing feels like fire.

Even water feels
like fire when
it gets inside of
you. My 6am jog
leaves me with
setting suns
pulsing in different
parts of my being
and they varnish
my skin with
a thin layer of
sweat that only
knows to burn and
burn and burn;
my clothes aren’t
seared about the
edges though
and this must be
why everyone
thinks I’m crazy.


- MJLand honestly, i don’t mind at all

"Time sounds like every blink before the tears take a nosedive."

- MJLwhat sad words sound like #3

trying to silence a writer

is like cutting the victim’s hands off
pulling her tongue out
but it doesn’t really matter
because her eyes still speak the truth

yes, you really have to fight for people like me
no, i’m not really worth fighting for