Author S. K. Nicholas

x and i: a novel

a journal for damned lovers vol 1-3

Dreams

  • Yr’self

    You can’t keep running from yourself. Can’t keep burying your head in someone elses dreams. There’s no escaping the mirrors of your mind, no matter how hard you try. The years come and go. Faces and landscapes, fading into a blurred haze. Money buys new ways to disguise loneliness and guilt, but the pain is… Read more

  • All The Lonely Lovers

    These nights bring nothing but stillness. Stillness in the leaves, and stillness drifting with the breeze. They ache of loneliness, yet their beauty is glorious. Soft like bedsheets and sand. Numb and confused. Floating through time and memory. My clothes slipping from my tired body, the haze of autumn days calls to me through the… Read more

  • Stained Lovers Passing Always

    Shapeless, bruised skin. Dejected hearts, burning brightly once more. I want nothing to do with love because love is cheap. It’s second hand, riddled with contradictions and hypocrisy. Love is selfish when it should be selfless. Writing gives me all the affection I need. It gives me intimacy, and it gives me magic. Away from… Read more

  • Journal Of A Lonely Plague Lover

    Cute girls. Losers and fuck-ups. All the beautiful people. Boiling together beneath clouds and neon ghosts. My stomach hurts, so I have a beer to make it better. Galaxies, distant and barely visible, held beneath her tongue so natural. All the lonely souls, dreaming together in silence. In a sweet embrace, that no one will… Read more

  • Journal Entry

    Drinking beer in bed. My neck hurts. Could be cancer, but probably not. My balls are empty, wasted on empty lust. The sky grows dark, the moon, nowhere to be seen. My navel visible, my belly thinner than it was before. I’m watching a documentary about the universe. Reminds me that there’s more to life… Read more

  • Crave It, Always

      Words as bullets, pumped straight into the guts of all those paled faced doubters. Fistfuls of creation, shoved into the mouths of all those who dare not dream. Am I stacker of shelves for Walmart, or am I a dreamer of fantastic thoughts, running through the streets of Berlin with my bearded face turned… Read more

  • Dreams Of A Lunatic Artist

      I’ve been working on the novel again for just over a week now. And with every passing day, I feel more and more alive. Every time I sense the doubt creeping back in, I tell myself that I can give it up if I want. That I can look for a cushy 9-5 job… Read more

  • Useless Generation

    they write books that say nothing they paint pictures to sell on biscuit tins and rugs all these artists with no voices no ideas worth repeating at all if you’re going to speak speak the truth even if it means derison and abandonment who wants to be part of their useless generation anyway? Read more

  • Break The Chains And Dance

    Loves dart. Changing hearts and Psalm blah blah. Breaking free of your mother’s curse, you should take my hand and walk with me through the fields of corn and the desert of the real. Parting your hair, I’ll show you the wonders others dare not face. They follow the rules, and bow down to the… Read more

  • My Writing as Sex, Faith, and Religion

    I’ve only been working on the novel a few days, but already I’m possessed. The energy and passion are back with me like they were all those years ago. All doubt is removed. No, not just removed, but obliterated. I feel as though I can walk through walls, as if the boundaries that were once… Read more