earnestly yours, Kim

| my poetry of all things beyond happiness and the opposite of it |

what is it

about the world we’re living in where we can make mistakes but can’t at the same time.

and if we ever make them, are we ourselves wrong to feel brought down by them? alongside the shame painted on us by society telling us we’re wrong?

i sometimes fear that any move i make could potentially be a mistake, a mess-up, or make me look completely stupid, anywhere i go.

my mistakes and the rest of the world’s, with a side of society’s perfection standards just has me all thinking…

since when did people forget that we’re all humans trying to be


overflowed kettle


is as if that whistling singing highly in tune,

out the hot kettle hole, over flames of gold and blue

continued on,

and on,

letting the water boil,

and boil,

only to over flow,

until someone shows up to clean up the mess.




and then they get burned.



that is volatile

will wound your


-free yourself


the grass grows in constant time

clouds dance among the dreamy blue

I blended into the breeze.

kissed by the beams of a star

warm tones fill my iris

as warm touch felt on skin,

I sat there,


entranced by beauty around

that I forgot,

to follow along.

-a slow growth

she walked like a pretty vase

made of porcelain and gold

without the beauty inside

of petals and a rose.

Try as you will… — Imperfect Poet

Try as hard as you will, in time you must accept that you cannot, by yourself, change the way of this world or the course of the wind.

via Try as you will… — Imperfect Poet

bed sheets


She only loved her sheets

when they were shared with him

and the warmth from his body

existed on them;

& while the moon would rise,

and the sun would set,

she fell in love with him

all over again.



the memory of us

slowly fades

and increasingly ages

once the sun meets the moon…


the end

pictures of us

and letters to each other

now only exist

as proof of a tragic

and beautiful




why do we let ourselves

hang on to the beauty of the rose

yet are bleeding from its thorn