Sunday Stanzas #3


Credits to:

Hope everyone is having a great weekend! Today I went blueberry picking and it was really refreshing to be able to detox the sour feelings I’ve had over the past few days. Here’s this Sunday’s stanza! 🙂


I want to know what

this sour feeling means.

I breathe in

broken manufactured words,

shaped like microbial pollen.

growing in me, it must be the

dandelion lie.


Am I not enough

to sit with you?

I am a sour gummy worm

in your acidic pool of

lemons, limes, lies.

lies, limes, lemons,



What hurts more than death

is an unescapable disease—

deceit and exclusion entwined

as one.


I lay awake,

my mind runs over

line by line,

trying to make sense of

their sour excuses—

a bitter brain cannot sleep

without the tart truth.




Stanza Sundays #2

Stanza Sundays #2
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Credits to Reuters/Facebook/GoFundMe

Hello & Happy Father’s Day! This week I wrote a poem following up the piece I wrote about the Orlando Shooting. I will link the article on the bottom for those who haven’t seen it yet! But in all seriousness, I wrote this with a heavy heart and I don’t think there’s any other way to talk about this than with a poem. – TheTypewriterBleeds 

To the 49 Beautiful Stomachs of Orlando

Put the gun on my stomach.

I want to feel the warmth

Of the power to kill

Radiate into me.

What power can rot

50 stomachs?

49 Beautiful Stomachs,

pierced by a weapon meant for war —

Have you seen the blood flowing like summer wine,

on a night that used to be theirs?

For 1,

the poison spread from

the root of his gut,

to his most fragile organ,

like a burnt Christmas tree.

How does it feel

when you hold

the power to watch

a man, a woman,

a friend, a sibling,

a child

fall with their eyes wide opened

in a place they thought was home?


I want to feel

where dangerous words never go.

My hunger for change is a mixture of

cheap alcohol and toasted peanuts

Splattered across washrooms, Dance-floors;

Dripped between the cracks of a free country,

as free as humans can ever be.


So put the gun on my stomach–

I want to feel enough so I’ll never forget.

49 Beautiful Stomaches,



Sunday Stanzas #1


Another quick update: Sorry I’ve been so AWOL from WordPress! I’ve wanted to write my first official piece, but I just haven’t had the time to come up with something worthy. Instead, I’ve decided to create a poetry section because I love poetry so much. I figured there isn’t anything nicer than poetry on Sundays right? Hope you’re having a great weekend wherever you are.

This is one of my favourite poems. It might be about infatuation.

The Kidnapping


the wavy brown haired girl

in her red plaid dress.

parents say she’s still around

in this lost city.


She remembers the feeling

of someone new, someone rare,

someone else

when it happens,

words gurgling like a juicer

with the toxic thirst,

she meets a boy whose name

is high mountain, exalted,

furthest towards the scorching sky.


His eyes follow her faulty disposition—

into the labyrinth of dusty bookshelves.

she smells the bubblegum soap on his warm hands,

and pure doves in his freshly shaven hair.

Possession waters her mouth in it’s darkest sincerity.


Out of curiosity,

his vicious velvety voice tickles,

so she follows him into the shadows of the sun.

To be willingly gone,

without moving a step in her stance.


Witnesses say

she’s physically here,

skin and bones.

but to lose the most worthy organ,

her parents took it as

a kidnapping.


– TheTypewriterBleeds