Midnight drabbles; insomnia

My insomnia holds my hand at night, 

whispering sweet nothings in my ear, 

be careful, be wary, be brave, my dear, 


There are days when it brings friends, 

and I find my monsters in the dark, 

weighing down my bed, 

filling up my head, 

with such heavy thoughts, 


And I haven’t got the fight in me to tell them to leave, 

Because sometimes you just need, 

something there, 

to tell you they care, 

even if they’re lying



I lie awake at night,
wondering if you might,
be thinking of me,
if you too see,
the darkness that now shrouds the,
brightest of our memories, 

how much it lingers,
to remember your fingers,
in my hair,
and yet my heart cannot repair,
itself from the crippled remains of me,  

Midnight drabbles; Abstract

There are days when the sadness
delivers itself into your organs,

There is no bleeding, no bruises,
though you wish them there,
because they don’t seem to know,
how to treat a wound of the soul,

So you wish for a purple sunset on your skin,
Red blossoms on your arms,
White bandages around your throat,

A piece of art,
maybe they’ll understand, then,

What it is like,
to be so abstract

Midnight drabbles; When Dreams Die

You awaken, shaken, beaten, 

wearing sweat like a second layer of skin, 

and there’s a hollowness in your gut, 

you can’t eat, 

you want to vomit, 

you wonder what it is, 

then it comes to you, 

Your dream is dead, 


I’ll be alright, you tell yourself, 

as you go about yours days with the fragments of your 

broken dream in your lungs, 

piercing into you with every breath, 

Ouch, ouch, ouch, 

instead you smile and laugh, 

As though there isn’t a corpse inside of you. 


Vixalia Visé, my love, 

Toxic Regurgitation// Rose & her thorn

//Trigger warning// 

I once knew a woman. Beautiful, red lips like dawn, skin like a petal, 

this friend, this woman…

Let’s call her Rose.

Yes, Rose. A woman with glamor, aesthetic,


I was young when we met, too young to notice the strain of her smile, her careful laughter, the subtle glint of perpetual sadness in her eyes,

how could something so beautiful look so sad?

blossoms so well, roses,

wither so easily,

she was my mother’s friend, and a Friend’s mother,

Ah, that Friend. If his mother was a rose then that Friend of mine was a Thorn, 





Like his mother. A spitting image,




Thorn; get close enough to him and he’ll cut you. Quite the talk, he was,

people showed off their wounds he gave them, waved about their blood like wine, 

fixed smiles, fake greetings, buddy-buddy,

‘hey man remember me?’

he never did. 

He had money, you see. They all did. Swam in it, inhaled it, 

money couldn’t cure Rose,

beautiful, frail, 

withering, oh so slowly, 

going, going,


Her last petal fell when he was fourteen. Overdosed on tablets.

a thorn he was, my friend,

people said he didn’t attend the funeral. 

a thorn he was, my friend, sharper now than ever, they said,

‘watch out for that one’

unfeeling bastard, they called him, 

but they didn’t know him, not like I did, 

They didn’t see him at the dead of night, that child, kneeling at his mother’s grave, sobs tearing his throat,

Asking a ghost why he wasn’t enough to keep her alive.

Midnight Drabbles; My Little Black Book

I have a little black book of which I let my dark thoughts run wild,
A diary of sorts, written in cursive, a date at the corner, a signature at the bottom.
There’s something cathartic about the way the black ink seeps into the paper,
the way my heart lightens at the stained pages, the anger and darkness that bled into something tangible and visible,
I like knowing that my monsters are there,
I like seeing my battle scars,
And I like to see them burn.

Oh, burning things is so satisfying. Don’t you think?
The flames, the way they lick their way through the paper,
That crackling of the fire prickles at your skin like goosebumps,
And the heat, the light, lifts your spirit just that little bit, curves your lips,
Suddenly those nightmares are nothing more than crisp black ashes and tendrils of smoke,
Yes, I burn those tattered, angry, sad little black of books of mine,
The ability to do so took a long while, but I had found the strength, the Devil’s strength, as I like to call it,
Because it is not the Angel’s, not any God that answers to me at night,
But a voice darker than my own that urges me forward, threatens me,
If you cannot move heaven, then you shall raise Hell, it says to me,
And I find myself with enough air in my lungs to last me the rest of the day,

I have a little black book of which I let my thoughts run wild,
I will keep writing them,
I will keep burning them,
Until there is no ink, no blood, left for me to bleed onto the paper,

Vixalia Visé,
Devil’s Strength my darling. 

Aberrant; A Wheel of Personas

The majority of you will believe that you know my name. The majority of you would also be wrong.

I think it’s important to state here that I am somewhat of a polyglot. And by some long and tangled string of ambiguous circumstances, have obtained an arsenal of global connections and pseudo-names. Because of this, my answer to your very simple ‘what’s your name?’ question becomes a full calculation on the account of what language you’re asking the question in, the location of said conversation taking place, and, really, how I’m feeling on that particular day. My friends call this ‘mysterious’, I just think it’s disorientating.

I realise this isn’t too strange a scenario. There’s a lot of people out there who don’t use their real name for whatever reasons; but there are only so many who can emphasise with the multiple personalities that come with the array of names, language and contrasting cultural constructs.

It’s scientifically proven that being able to speak different languages exercises different parts of your brain (or something like that, I don’t know the details to be honest) so it’s no wonder that bi/multi-linguistics experience slight, if not drastic, alterations in character depending on the language they’re speaking.

You see, I’ve become a firm believer of the myth that names and words have sway over your life. I still remember the discussion I had with my family when I was a child about how your name actually influences a good 20% of your life. It’d sounded ridiculous at first, but the more I thought about it, the more my somewhat ‘flexible’ choices of names and clashing personalities started to make sense.

Think about it, we associate certain names with certain characteristics and personalities in the same way that we connote meanings with colour. We read about characters in books and sometimes, without any further description, assume that Ashley is blonde, that Axel is bad-ass, and Brad is gonna be a dick (no offence if your name is Brad, I’m sure you’re lovely in real life) I don’t mean to say that changing your name immediately changes who you are, it won’t cure your asthma or your allergy to nuts or your grade point average. It’s the tiny things I’m talking about here; the tilt of your smile, the arch of your back, the lilt of your words. A lot of people barely notice. It’s the sharp ones you need to look out for.

“This…aberrant behaviour of yours. Do you have an explanation for it?” A teacher of mine during my high school years had asked me just after lunch break. She’d caught me rounding the corner and pulled me aside for a word.


“Yes. Aberrant. Uncharacteristic. You don’t seem like yourself today. Is everything okay back at home?” 

Nothing was ever really okay back at home, but I didn’t tell my teacher that. Though I admit I’d been in a particularly sour mood that day and had retaliated to a racist comment with tipping the boy’s curry over his lap. I suppose she must’ve caught me and thought it strange, considering I was barely the kind to raise my hand for an question I knew the answer to.

“I’m sorry.” I said to her, “I didn’t realise I was acting…strange.” 

My teacher gave me an odd look, as though waiting for me to elaborate. When it was clear I was done talking, she just shook her head and dismissed me.

Aberrant. I decided I liked that word. It was, in a way, well applicable to me. Everyone has those days when we’re not really feeling like ourselves. Hormones are a bitch after all, though my case can’t be closed by blaming hormones alone. My case goes all the way down to my psychosis–another story for another time.

I still believe it’s impossible to be fully something. If you imagine yourself as a pie chart, you are never just a single circular block of colour. You are a little bit of your mother, a side of your father, a hater and a lover, an angel to one and the devil to another. You are a canvas painting of colours and landscape that make up a pretty picture.

My painting is a ruined piece of oil pigment; my pie chart the ultimate Wheel of Persona’s that I give a spin from time to time just to see where it lands. A lot of the time, I can’t control it. It took the smallest things to alter my persona, the wrong sentence, the wrong weather, the wrong alarm noise. Over the years I’ve learnt to keep a tight leash on each of me, though I admit there are days when I let my monsters run wild.

And that’s what this blog is for.

My monsters and aberrants; I want you guys to meet them.

Create a free website or blog at WordPress.com.

Up ↑