Tuesday, July 28, 2015


When is it that we’re really alive? Is it when our souls first greet their tragic silhouettes?
Is it waiting for us in our first and last breaths?
Is it when we speak the truth instead of lying to ourselves?
And what of the devil hidden in between lines and imaginary friends?
Is it when we’re desperate for the run before the crawl? For the murder on our fingertips, or the words we hastily scrawl?

Victor Millan

Friday, July 3, 2015


How weird is it we’d end up this way?
Dead love, dead eyes, dead mine - only for you, dead I.
Yours is a damaged soul, mine keeps asking Why?

Victor Millan

Thursday, July 2, 2015


It’s just another night of me sitting around – taking words, maybe not so bold maybe pointless but still throwing them on the wall to see who would say what about mettle and subtlety. And then without warning she rushes up on me and dances a burning one two cheek and I'm sent on a purple carpet to her beautiful cloud #9 . . . and this is exactly what my chaotic ‘I’ was in desperate need of.
And across the room a candle’s burning old but it’s much different from the familiar scent of black love at 12610 (one, twenty-6, ten).

So I kept writing til I was satisfied but something broke me and I went to pieces and my blood reached a boiling point mess so that I’d be no good at communication and right there I knew my day was done. It was time to rock & roll by myself with Ms. Mary Jane in the fiery haze and forget about the rain and the cold weather with the mother standing outside.
So I did what I do and I took my other notebook out and I free-styled for a while.

The candle eventually blew out but I still managed to smoke up some of the kind and write my frustrations away to never forget you.

Victor Millan