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“To me, Robert Frost has been one of the greatest inspirations. ‘The Road Not Taken’ is perhaps the reason why I started writing poetry in the first place. But there is something that has always bugged me a little. If I were to come across the great crossroads in my life, I might not be able to make my decision quite so simply.”


I see two roads that diverge here
They want to test my state of mind
They ask of me, solidity
To leave repentance behind

Though as one grows to love his sorrow
As have I, to leave my strife
But troubled and befuddled minds
Can’t quite seem to make this stride

The burden of the moment rises
The grey ahead is far too black
The ability to predict my fate
The gods of my fortune lack

Such divergence isn’t new
The feared say in a fearless voice
Nonetheless, as clichés go
My traveler ought to make his choice

Before the first of a thousand miles
I see two roads that shake me through
The butterfly that is my guide
Reminds me there is much to do


Reality is Beautiful

The eastern sunrise is usually prettier
Than the western one
The harps placed at the gates of heaven
Are perhaps not as loud as a nightingale
Almost entirely not as half as enchanting

The coolness of weary waters
Is much less colder than the contempt of vile souls
Though the contemptuous hypocrisy that exists
Is a horrendously chilling concept

Conceptually speaking, utopia is ethereal
The temptation of Elysium however,
Is not quite as tempting as that insurmountable need
– to continue to feel –
Warm blood coursing through your veins

Which would you rather choose?
To be with your lover, now, in the present,
Far, far, away from the throes of separation?
Or the promise of spending a countless life,
Over a countless time, beyond this pointless grime?

I like assumptions. They make life easier.
Especially when messiahs without a driving license
Drive away abstract hazards.
Assumptions are fantastic.
But in the end, reality is beautiful.

A Tunnel of Trees

Tunnel of Trees

Paths that swell
Roads that weave
Aligned with plants
That form a sleeve

Lonesome I lie
On a rug of shrubs
Of coolest grass
Under calmest breeze

The sun beats down
With spearing beams
Though barricades
Of canopies

Day turns night
And dew does freeze
I’m still alone
With my personal peeves

Glistening stars
Are barely seen
Shrouded by
A cloud of leaves

No person ventures
Here to see
Or tries to disrupt
My abode of peace

In my haven
I am at ease
As I escape into
A tunnel of trees

An Infinite Spark

Ideas! Ideas!
I have none.
A lot can change
With just one

A single spark
Will fly your way
And when it clicks
It’s here to stay

Ideas! Ideas!
You’ve never heard!
A simple one
May change the world

What we are is
What we’ve thought
These ideas distinct
Can’t be taught!


Not all are what they claim to be
Modesty seems like an imperfect notion
Our thoughts, they try to break free
They are barely heard in our own commotion

We all seek ways to run
To be those who we are not
We should revel in actions, yet –
We obsess over our thoughts

We walk a faded path
We try not to care
Enchained in a prison
Of our inability to dare

Opaque and blindsided
Our purpose is astray
All that’s left of our lives
Are silhouettes damned and grey



I did not draw this. :P

“Faces like faces, can’t be inked.”

Lost in dreams
You see them think
With strands of hair
That seldom link
Eyebrows with
A puckered kink
Eyes that cry
Will also wink
Pointy noses
For fragrant stink
In dismay will they
Often crink
Cheeks that glow
With hues of pink
Have dimples in
Their beauty sink
Lips that frown
And lips that drink
A tooth that aches
And teeth that clink
Even Jaws and chins
All move in sync
Formed expressions
All lost in blink
Faces like faces
Can’t be inked

Merci Mademoiselle

Yesterday I look at my notifications and see that I now have over 25 followers and more than a 100 likes. #YayMe.
I know it isn’t that big a deal in the wider scope of things, but it’s nice to know someone is not only reading, but also appreciating something you created. I know there are plenty of people who write for themselves and aren’t really looking for anything materialistic in return. They do not necessarily want recognition, money, fame, etc. To be honest the person who convinced me to start this blog is amongst them. But even she loves it when her writing is appreciated. Who wouldn’t?

Anyway, here’s something I wrote for that person. It’s not for what she made me do, but for something that she makes me want to.
It’s a poem titled: “Crumpets“.

Oh humble host
For brunch we meet
Of fruits and toast
Please have a seat

It’s all so spruce
That scrambled egg
And apple juice
To break a leg

Let’s talk and talk
Through brilliant smiles
In stillness walk
For a thousand miles

Of books we’ll speak
The blogs we write
Of matters black
Of matters white

We’ll reminisce
Or so we’ll tweet
Place hashtags
#crumpets. #sweet.

Advice To A Young Man Hoping To Go Somewhere (Or Get Something From Someone Successful)

Bloody Brilliant.

Thought Catalog

When I dropped out of school at 19 to start my first job in Hollywood, I didn’t know anything and I had no idea where I’d end up. Thankfully, I was attached to some smart and forgiving people who let me learn under them. I suppose I also had good instincts. Within a few short years, I’d become a bestselling author, the director of marketing for a publicly traded company and get to work on a ton of cool projects. I’ve hired my fair share of people now (fired them too) and having been through the ringer of young-person-just-starting-out-in-a-new-field close to a half dozen times, I figure I know it well enough to talk about it.

It goes like this: You’re scared but overconfident, clueless but eager to learn, just glad to be given a shot and you don’t want to screw it up. I tried to think of a…

View original post 957 more words

The Murder of Expression

Just a moment
Hear me out
First I ask
Then I shout

My voice is swallowed
Whole by the throng
My words lost
In a tuneless song

I am tired and jaded
Of this uninterested crowd
I make one last attempt
I shout out loud

With pride and valour
My voice does soar
But later subsides
As there are a million more

Fly, fly, till you succeed

"HAH! Sucker!"

His name is Pete!

Have you heard the story?
Of a man who tried to try
Unwittingly so
To try and kill a fly

He started with a roll of paper
He swung it all around
With gusto and much vigour
And a harsh brutal sound

But this man of 60-something
Was horrendously slow
He kept missing and a-missing
This was not the way to go

An idea struck his being
With the force of a charging sloth
A knife would do the trick
That a paper roll could not

Though a stab will certainly miss
For a blade is much too slim
So he got instead a gun
Whose hilt was gold and trim

With that golden hilted barrel
He did have a go
But as the fly will tell you
Such guns are just for show

It was known amongst the people
This man was not quite sound
No one thought to ask him
Why he was digging up the ground

You see this brilliant idiot
Had it planned and sorted out
“I’ll bury the fly alive”
He said this with a shout

Almost all his effort
Went hastily down the drain
For he threw out all the mud
In the gutters meant for rain

He said there’s only one way
Only one way could be seen
He left the house with hurry
To get back some kerosene

“I’ll light the house on fire
I’ll light the house aflame
This fly that flies so freely
I shall put his race to shame”

So he poured it on the couch
And he poured it on the curtain
This plan was very full-proof
Of that fact he was certain

He set his house on fire
With him inside to stay
The fly did what flies do best
It simply flew away.

Drinking Tips for Teens

Creative humour, satire and other bad ideas by Ross Murray, an author living in the Eastern Townships of Quebec, Canada. Is it truth or fiction? Only his hairdresser knows for sure.

snaughty thoughts

“You know what I’d like to be? I mean if I had my goddam choice?”

Doing Science To Stuff

Some things just need science done to them.

Richard Levesque

Science Fiction and Paranormal Fantasy with a Noir Twist

Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind.

I write, not to be read, but for the pleasure of writing.

Words Of Birds

Left the Nest

Ashley Cameron's Writing

A collection of short stories and poems written by yours truly

Read A Little Poetry

Listen, are you breathing just a little, and calling it a life? ― Mary Oliver

Sloppy Etymology

"Do we simply stare at what is horrible and forgive it?" - Richard Siken

The Blog

The latest news on and the WordPress community.