created this poem from movement

glaring sight on the audience with less movement; seeing nothing but feeling the soft surface with the hand; timing changes are vital to the overall experience;

see the world during the difficult road trip;

taking a seat next to a wall; slowness; the audience is there to observe; flamingo walks with intensity at full level; forget it, move on;

no space to move away from each other; symmetrical planes but perpendicular almost; shape created by release; lateral walking to show off IT Band; opening up the shape to reveal its actual meaning; sharing a line and dropping it at the same time; walking towards the problem; seeing my reflection in my hand; notice the difference between the changes of level; grasping onto a cloud of air;

where is my movement? She has some and I don’t; weary of the social aspect of not being like the other; feel the back pull the knee up like a pulley system; being taken over by my right leg; it brings me down to basement level; where is your movement? Why do we have some and you don’t? Socially that is weird that we are in motion and you are not;

take it to the limit and drive to China in a period of 15 seconds; it has taken over you and you are now back at where you started because you drove too long; watch out for flying arms; wrists get soft and the volume decrescendos; the roots of your tree take you down;

spiralling underwater and the waves are controlling you up and down; take a moment for yourself under the sea where the spinning seashells live; feel the sand and the rocks that make up the bottom of the ocean;

the lights turn off so you are dead.


I’m sitting on a stone ledge that saves me from falling into the rocky sea. I have never felt more lost. S just left. He feels lost too. He was asked to come out and dance with everyone but his life is so messed up right now, he really didn’t want to go anywhere. I feel for him like he was the personification of my own soul. Walking with him was all I needed for tonight. I didn’t need sex, I didn’t need to dance, I just wanted real genuine connection with someone who understands how hard life is. I feel so happy with S. I want to know his troubles and learn how to take care of him. I really wish I had more time with him. I leave the island tomorrow and all I can think about is how timing is such a beach.

I want to spend days and nights with S talking about divorce, suicide, purpose, work ethic and other deep topics that can only be discussed with the right people.

Although, I can’t expect him to fix all my problems. He is still figuring out his own. I want to be involved in his thought process and know him through the pain.

I met you at a time when I was certain a genuine connection meant sexual interaction. I thought that having a one night stand would help me plough through my problems better than a conversation about mental illness. As if a penetration of body parts could solve a calculus equation so complicated in my heart. As if the way you moan had anything to do with my happiness.

I should have remembered that you were sad and fragile like a wonderful teenager. You couldn’t have had enough energy for both of us. Life takes so much from us. How would I feel if someone older than me tried to depend on me at that age? But regardless, when I sat next to you on the boat ride into town and my head nudged into your shoulder blade as you watched the lights fade on the sea, I had hope. Your back was a million miles long. I saw definition in your spine that caused me to define myself differently. Better. A better me with you there.

You let me hold your hand in mine. You never said no, you never pushed away. Did you want to or was it weird? Was my energy helpful to you? I have hope that I helped in some way.

And you asked to walk the rest of the way home by yourself. But I knew that something was changed in you when we sat in silence. I knew that my life was changed for the better when you let my neck seep into your collar bone. I have hope.

Bring the light that you felt next time you have someone in your arms. Bring hope. I know I will.

You will bring me home.

My favourite animal is a giraffe. They are so tall. Not only that but they are so lanky. Objects that stand higher than my head have an inevitable power over me. I used to think that was a scary thought, especially while I was a kid. Everyone seemed to cover my entire existence with their shadows and I was frightened by that for so long. Now, I find tall bodies to be the perfect challenger. I can access their instincts better.

Giraffes don’t march through villages like Godzilla on a rampage. They eat grass. Sometimes even reaching all the way down to the ground to eat it. Giraffes have so much power over humanity and yet they choose not to abuse it.

You are my favourite giraffe. Your skyscraper-like stance puts me at ease. I want to dive into your embrace and feel the complete warmth of your arm span. It is special in so many ways. A gentle giant. A sweet creature.

To the apartment above mine

I hear the dissonant steps of heeled boots walking along a hallway.

I hear the gentle sounds of piano being played for practice.

I wonder if you are one person, living in a city so full of promise

I wonder if you are two people, romancing each other every night.

I wonder if you are seven people, fitting yourselves together in a small space.

Nonetheless, I gather information about you. Trying to put a face to a voice. Or a personality to a genre of music. Or a gender to a fashion choice.

It’s funny that I feel safe when I hear you’ve arrived home with a door closing. Recalling my family home, I sometimes imagine that you are my parents arriving home after work. I rejoice in having company even though I cannot see your eyes or hands. Please stay above me. Do not feel nervous about sliding heavy furniture across the floor. I am not annoyed by that.

I just want to continue gathering information.

Older thoughts

I wrote these two passages when I was just starting my love for writing. They are very innocent and ignorant, and I like to think I was a very different person six years ago.

Exploring the Self through Creative Writing

University of Ottawa Course (May 7-11, 2012)

A Different Side

She moved like a gazelle. Her gait was legato almost peaceful. Called by the name of Ruby, she let everyone in with a greeting smile. Not only was Ruby outgoing and seemingly friendly, she made homeless people feel at home. But something was wrong with Ruby. She would help others then disappear briefly. She was found once under a bench, shivering beside a box. Ruby explained that this particular box holds almost everything she loved. A picture of her mom, who had passed away 3 years ago, a green lollipop still wrapped up alongside other ancient-looking candy and another smaller box which Ruby didn’t want people to see. She said, “This box is empty. Nothing special. Just a box.” But her blood-shot eyes inquired differently. One thing we found out a little too late was that Ruby used to enlighten herself daily with drugs mixed with old candy. Before she died, she had spat out, “I hate everyone.”

Leave it to Heat

It’s remarkable how people can recall an experience from way back into their lives. An image that pops into my find is when I was seated fairly close to my neighbours and older sister while warming our extremely damp socks. It had been a cold day with icicles stuck to the streetlights but all of our eager little feet convinced us to never miss the chance to skate. The heater in front of us was barely long enough for two people but we squeezed together and grasped every watt of heat that we could. The red as blood lines of warmth on the heater have been engraved into my mind as a picture that started our friendships. We have been friends ever since.

Liquid poetry.

The appropriate time to spill your drink is always.

sun’s and daughters own separate blood supplies to their parents.

glow through the black tea that darkness pours against you.

at times, there cannot be maple syrup.

dinner is served with your choice of side: tears, snot, or drool.

time to get myself a a Big Gulp.

is that the only vodka you brought to Putin’s funeral? Absolutely not.

as you go to the kitchen, make sure you stop by the water cooler and tell a joke.

lovely little latte you got there, miss.

as sane as I may look, the Red Bull I drank gave my brain cells permission to fly away.

a container of urine has the ability to save your life.

cup of soup for my old man, waiter.

of course he bought the lactose-free, soy-free, nut-free, water-free milk you wanted!


I slept on your side today

First draft.

Apr 15, 2015


I slept on the emptiness that replaces you. You are invisible but awake in my bed. I wanted to feel even a small crease in the sheets that you are assigned to sleep on. I wanted to know that your inexistent presence could be touched by my desperate body. Does the world stop when you sleep in your bed? Given that the comfort of my own side of this bed is all that I have left, I made the choice to find out what lies beside me. I made the courage happen. I made YOU happen again. Night after tearful night. The world stops when I close the lights and work my way into a calming sleep. Did you even sense me? I suppose your feeling is opposing, meaning that your side of your bed holds your infinite body. Meanwhile, the other side of your bed holds a creation that seeks love for you. I only seek your soul. Did you grab the sheets in loneliness? I did, that night, that I slept on your side.

Second draft.

Sept 12, 2017


I slept on the emptiness that replaces you. You are invisible, but awake in my bed. I wanted to feel even a small crease in the sheets that was assigned for you to sleep on. Only you. I wanted to know that your inexistent presence could be touched by my desperate body. Without it hurting you.

Does the world stop when you sleep in your bed? Does my smell ever seep into your sheets? Given that my own side of this bed is all I have left, I made the choice to find out what lies beside me.

I made the courage happen.

I made YOU happen again.

Night after tearful night.

The world stops when I close the lights and work my way into a calming sleep. I mean, do you even think about the way the mattress used to feel like a boat? We used to swim together. Across the sheets that felt like waves, clutching to the head board that felt like a life jacket.

I suppose I shouldn’t expect so much of you. When did it become necessary for lovers to care for each other?

Fading back to reality though, I am lying here on your side. The smell of

love and sex and no clothing and late nights and laughter and ruffled sheets and confusing motivation

weaves through the gases of this air. While my fan blows my hair out of my face, you brush into the hallowed walls of my brain. It always seems to be night time for me to be conscious of you. I can feel you more in darkness. Does that mean you are a dark and twisted soul, unfit for a romance?

Do you grab the sheets in loneliness? I did, last night, when I slept on your side.

Video and final project.