I Want to Be A Comic Book Artist

I am a very creative person. To those that know me, and with the amount of lame poems I post on here, that comes as no surprise. I am also a very spontaneous person, which is something I never truly realized – or possibly did not even develop – until a few years ago. So naturally, I have changed my mind on what I would like to become, at least a hundred times. Here in the last few months it has become far more clear to me, however.

I want to be a comic book artist.

This is not the only thing I wish to become, because I still want to be a writer, filmmaker and musician. It is what I have really been focusing on, however, and it is something I really want to achieve.

I want to draw silly, simplistic comics that make people laugh, whilst touching on morbid, strange subject matter. I have been working on a comic called Unstrung Harp (here’s a link: https://tapastic.com/series/Unstrung-Harp ) for some months now. As time has gone on, I have been getting better at drawing, and really developing the story. It started out as a simple comic I did out of boredom, but now I have so many great plans for it. I don’t want to stop there, though.

I want to do this my whole life. I kind of have been doing it… well, a lot of my life.

When I was in elementary school, I drew a comic series about evil venus fly traps that were always trying to take over the world. They used catapults to shoot themselves across the city, and eat people. I have always been a really goofy person, so this comic was laced with humour and ridiculous situations. I remember doodling it in my notebooks, then ripping out the pages and passing it to my friends in class. It brought me a lot of joy to draw it, but then in high school I stopped. I’m not really sure why. I guess other things like theatre just grabbed my attention. Now at 22 it’s all I want to spend my free time doing. Instead of it just being something silly to ignore class with, I now want to make it my job. I don’t know how that will ever be possible, but I am hoping that it will interest enough people on the internet to gain a lil following and maybe a career could come out of it that way.

Now, I realize this is a lot to hope, and that the world is filled with artists. But there’s no harm in trying, and even if I never make a cent doing this, I will continue to do it as long as I live. It’s just so fun, and my whimsical humour seems to make other people happy too.

click clack

There’s something really satisfying about typing on a keyboard whose keys make a click-clack sound every letter. I currently sit at the library, I came here to print out some things. While I do own a computer at home, sometimes it’s quite enjoyable to go to a new place to sit in silence in a room of people all click-clacking away too. It reminds me of being a kid and watching spy movies, where the stereotypical hacker type is sat in some paper-ridden basement, frantically drilling fake code on a black and green monitor.

It’s been so long since I’ve written anything anyway. This is probably my first attempt at writing anything in months. How then can I call myself a writer if I never do it anymore? I can’t. It’s frustrating to me when other people call themselves writers and never write. You cannot be what you never do. I should put more of an effort into crafting stories. The irony is that I do this all the time in my head – dream the boring moments of day away with fanciful plots. I am a scattered creative. There are so many ways in which I love to pour out my creativity that I can hardly settle on one. I love to create comics and songs as well as writing. I suppose that is why I have such a hard time labeling myself as anything. What am I? Sometimes I think I’ll never find out.

It is also obvious to me that my writing voice is a rather stark contrast from my speaking voice. In writing I like to appear more eloquent and knowledgeable. Day to day I speak with a common street slang popular to those I surround myself with because it’s more comfortable and allows me to fit in easier, I suppose. I think it is possible to live within both realms of language without one discrediting the other.

This has been a rather rambling post, but my time at the computer is about up and I have other things I must do today.

Until next time, friends.

3.9.17 poem

The air is warm in the way that
you are warm but
it’s not the same.

I’ve missed days like these,
being able to relax if even for a moment,
free from the yarn ball
string crawled
up into my ears and wrapped itself around my brain and

It is only a feeling,
a sensation of perhaps.
I await the love that summer brings,
free from these intangible strings
that bind and wind me up
tight to snap.

But things are changing.


I worry about staying up all night
when my brain is too worried to sleep.
I worry about my failures in the past,
when they are far behind me.

I stress about money, bills and all sorts
how I’ll pay for the hours I spend
worrying about the future and wracking my brain
to figure out how to meet ends.

The fact  that I’m aging, that life races by,
that soon I’ll be old and eventually die.
My friends and I struggle just to pay rent
while toddlers get iPads with money the rich spend.

I worry so much it makes me feel sick
staying up til 9am, sleeping til 6.
I worry about worrying. How dumb is that.
Pulling silly thoughts from a worrying hat.

But the truth is, worry doesn’t do good.
It just  makes you feel worse, when you should
appreciate the positive in your life.
And hey, it’s not all bad sometimes.

‘Cause you may sleep during the day,
and be up all night, but you can make
such beautiful art, or read a great book.
Just remind yourself life isn’t a hook,
it’s the sea, it’s the sky, it’s the moon and sun.

So worry less, and great things will come.


-5:02am, 9/27/2016


The house is ripped from the field,
twisting and
turning as
scraps of metal and wood are torn from the sides, thrown acres away.
The rain pours
like some kind of last effort.
The plot of land where the house stood,
a barren, dirt ridden lot.
A home I used to know,
now lost.
Rebuild until sun turns to dust, moon crumbles to ash.
Sleep never.
Then perhaps these walls will resurrect themselves.

[Author’s note: that was the worst poem I’ve written all year but it’ll do.]


I sit on the bridge
and my feet hang over the river.
Bright red Converse clash against the murky gray.
My thoughts are the same.
I’m thinking of a bitter end,
but hoping for a bittersweet.
The coffee tastes blacker,
darker, than any roasted brew.
The rain soaks my shirt, cold
and sickly. Sticking to my skin
in the warm summer afternoon.
Perhaps the morning will be clear,
and no confusion will await me there.
For now I will sit and stare
out at that wavy blue and green.

rambling @ 2am

It’s 2am on the dot.
I always find myself awake at this hour, planned or unplanned.
Witnessed or unexplained.
The world turns, yet here I am, awake when so many in this city are sleeping.
Sometimes I wonder if I slept for a week, would it matter?
What dreams would fill my head, or would I only see black
during the 7 day coma.
Would I reach a sort of tv static in my head.
A dream limbo?
Would anything
happen during the days I missed?
Would I be throwing away a week of my life I could have spent
making something truly wonderful?

I am so tired.
I am so very, very tired.
These are the things I think about.