I used to draw and write a lot. These days, I make music.

Your lips on my lips, a kiss so lovely, we trace on our skin patterns of pleasure. I wake, mind grasping to hold on tightly to the sweetest dream, my only treasure. The morning is old, but I'm older still. Clicks of the clock echo pops of my own. A drizzle drowned the dawn's dew with a chill that grates at your absence deep in my bones.

I can't stop sighing about thighs sightings. They're soft, strong, provide support all day long. Sensitive on the inside, rugged on the outside, they're always up for a ride.

If the sky can’t be bothered to wake up then why should I? In my bed, scrolling through Threads, I can pretend the day ahead isn't full of hatred.

A collection of silly rhymes, haikus, and random observations. Updated as inspiration strikes.

A silly, short poem about allergies becomes a full-fledged, humorous song somehow tied to A.I.

The French tradition of "Poisson d'Avril" dates back to 1100 BC, when France was locked in a wet and salty conflict with Atlantis.