Every Monday morning, I pray you have a good week
Every evening, I pray you fall in to a sound sleep 

Every Friday, I pray your weekend will be safe

Every Sunday, I pray you are in a peaceful place

And sometimes, when I’m feeling selfish, I pray you will be mine again 

An atheist caught in a cycle of prayer. 

A wise friend once told me, patience is a virtue.

You were right.

So I’ll wait for you.

Seconds, minutes, hours. Days, months, weeks and years.

I’ll wait.

Don’t worry, my love, I am not actively awaiting your return.

You would not want that, and I am tired of being sad.

Just know, I’ll always be yours.

I am sprung on you, my love, and I do need you back.

Just not today.

And probably not tomorrow.

But I’ll be waiting, sweetness.

Yours truly,


Meteorology is for the weak.

Meteorology is for the weak.

You can not handle this.

The most violent waves crashing on the shore.

The angriest flames burning away at the Earth.

The sharpest of winds tearing down all in its path.

You can not handle it.

For I am mother nature, and you are a weatherman.

Fake ass bitch

Fake ass bitch

Happiness just seems so fake to me. 

Happiness is Yeezy’s bought at a flea market.

Happiness is a counterfeit Benjamin.

Happiness is faux fur trenchs.

Happiness is a Louis Vuitton bag bought off a street cart in NYC.

Happiness simply is some designer shit were all trying to cop but can’t so we just front some knock off bullshit.




I hate you, and I hate being alive. I hate that you make me hate being alive. I hate everything about you. I hate how you make me feel. I hate that you are gone. I hate your smile. I hate your friends. I hate that I can not make you happy anymore. I hate your front of disinterest. I hate your reserved demeanor. I hate that I am not over you. I hate your happiness. I hate that I doubt that you are really happy but will never ask. I hate that it has been a month without speaking. I hate being weak. I hate you for making me feel weak. FUCK YOU. 



You were in my dream last night.

I vaguely remember where we were.

You sat on a lime green salon chair.

I have never been here before.

You look handsome per usual.

I do not know remember why we were together.

You were evil.

I sit in your lap.

We kiss.

You push me off into the next chair.

I cry.

“You are too much for me,” you say.

I sit in your lap.

We kiss.

You push me off into the next chair.

I cry.

“You are too much for me,” you say.

I sit in your lap.

We repeated over and over until I woke up.

I am subconsciously plaguing myself with a symbol of our relationship.

You were in my nightmare last night.