There’s a comfort in being ravaged by the multiple hands of near-perfect lovers; In being chewed and spit out because the only feeling it leaves you breathing is the knowledge that now, there’s one less heartbreak to deal with. Whoever said that the number game was the act of adding on, never understood the luxury of taking off what was never sown. So here I am, standing tall, feeling small knowing that the superficial forehead kiss you gave my emotions was just a way of l

Back then -you know when the scars could scab as easily as fruit going ripe- the bloodshot shot eyes of a wounded liver couldn’t keep me from running into the libido of a one-time lover. ~N.V. (written on 27 March, 2014) Note: From a much larger, coming-of-age poem I wrote titled 'There Was A Time'.

Could I clutch onto my mother’s skirts forever, and follow the comfort Into the arms of heaven? Can I believe in this goddamn faith that my siblings are my first children? Can I hang onto the thread, the semblance of the unusual, the ordinary, the taste of my own knowledge? Should I share the love I don’t have or distribute it to those who do? Do I keep knocking on your hypothetical door till you find the time to sing to me that you love me true? Should I, must I, can I belie

I can be the vice to your virtue The noose to your death. The lure to your cravings, I can be the pendulum above your head. I can be the addiction to your stress; The crash to your wave, The speed to your car, I can be the cut to your shave. I can be the sin to your deeds, The chant to your hymn. The dagger to your shield, I can be the bruise to your shin. I can be the lie to your conscience, The fire to your rage. The name of your desires, I can be the numbe

The battle is dead because the war is won; If you think you're the man, I gave birth to your son. ~N.V. (written on 2 Aug, 2011) Note: a phrase from a larger, angsty poem I wrote titled 'Boy'.

I use metaphors to describe the indescribable When I have no other way to emote my feelings; And the world seems to crumble in melancholic bliss Of concrete houses and zero ideals. As I sit within the swirls of grey smoke and wet skies Wondering where you are Where we are… I watch through the slits in my eyes because the world is just too bright With these people who walk by innocently, unassuming… unattainable. Do they know that I am sickeningly in love? Drenched in confusio

If illusions were reality, And reality a myth, Would a myth be real then? And would the world believe in it? ~N.V. (written on 22 Aug, 2007)