Photo by Christian Lue on Unsplash


you gotta wonder

how many nights can be spent with this obliterating loneliness before something gives

before you lose yourself and become something you don’t recognize

before your soul craters, and this strange weight changes from something you’ve been carrying to something you are

and you reflect and your own thoughts frighten you, and you worry about the mind producing them, and you know nothing about this is sustainable without lasting damage you cannot comprehend, and you query your inner child but find only a corpse, and the crater yawns, and so do you, and even in your dreams you can hear something grinding

you really gotta wonder

Photo by Prateek Katyal on Unsplash


i’m on a ferris wheel with friends,

and also with some strangers that

will call themselves my Friends.

Someone says ‘i tried to end

it but i guess that i’m still here’

and without pause the next one says

‘holy shit I GOT THE JOB!’

The rest of us react:

helplessly with Care and Love,

smiling w̵h̵i̵l̵e̵ ̵w̵e̵'̵r̵e̵ ̵s̵a̵d̵.̵

Look at all these sights and sounds!

i̵ ̵w̵i̵s̵h̵ ̵t̵h̵i̵s̵ ̵r̵i̵d̵e̵ ̵w̵o̵u̵l̵d̵ ̵j̵a̵m̵.̵

b̵o̵y̵ ̵t̵h̵i̵s̵ ̵w̵o̵r̵l̵d̵ ̵i̵s̵ ̵m̵a̵d̵.̵


the embers in your touch

don’t leave any marks on my throat.

we are cigarettes with

clearly labeled warnings —

more honesty here than

in the Forever of commitment.

we know: statues on pedestals

don’t smolder like this.

best to take a long drag,

fill each other’s lungs —

each other’s blood —

let it burn for a bit,

then flick the ashes away.


Photo by Cassandra Hamer on Unsplash

sometimes self care is a nice walk or some yoga

sometimes it’s a burrito the size of a secret Republican baby

sometimes it’s a blunt

or time with your cat in a cuddly mood

sometimes it’s bingeing a good show

or time with friends

or time alone

sometimes it’s drinking water

or watering plants

sometimes it’s a bath

or tidying up

or a bit of art

sometimes it’s writing a poem

or reading one on Medium

sometimes it’s not being able to do a god damn thing

not a single. god. damn. thing.

and being cool with that.


they said the general is dead

We said good.

they said how dare we speak that way of a man of great deeds, a man with accolades and prestige, sworn loyal to the nation’s creed

We shrugged.

they called him politician, diplomat, statesman. their voice shrieked from the screens: we are the news! who are you?

We called him war criminal, liar, murderer, tool.

Our voice blossomed from the soil: we are the culture, we are the truth. And we are not your fools.


i started writing a poem about the brutality of loneliness.

i scribbled something like,

“how is it a heart can detonate in complete silence,”

but couldn’t find what else to say.

then i saw the ‘publish’ button in the corner of my eye,

and pushed it anyway.


strawberries and strawberry-flavored things


therapy, embracing vulnerability

reading and writing poetry

cute things, including pets or art w/ cute aesthetics, and the wiggle emoji my discord friends see me use a lot

talking about feelings, insecurities, hopes, fears


floral art and patterns


intersectional feminism


not trying…

Photo by Aziz Acharki on Unsplash


my rhetoric is artillery.
my writing style is arson.
my god —
with my words,
i could kill somebody’s god.
size up the greedy machine,
the doom and the hate.
the pen hits the page — BOOM!
it detonates.
take a look at this place —
fascist fucking paradise,
killers in blue.
i’m here to blow shit up, man.
ain’t you?

Photo by Daniel Jensen on Unsplash


every poem about death

was written by the dead.

they etch their impact on the people left behind;

the people called poets are the ghost

-writers, lingering and lurching

and searching for meaning

and the place they find it

is in their hearts, a place

where the dearly departed had…

Michael Guevarra

i write love letters from the void. editor of The Anticapital, bylines @ LEVEL | P.S. I Love You | The Writing Cooperative

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