You can’t stop his sentences with a dot, period.

Photo by Quest Antonio

Easy Tears
Easy tears down a weary cheek, a trembling lip like a silent earthquake that erupted from the heart. A warrior sized heart, a peaceful epicenter. 
Which is only just the vessel of the soul
and everyone silly says you can’t see the soul.

These stories
These words stamped down like a hammer into the concrete, rocks polished and 
chiseled smooth like glass, a fine piece of life that resides and the dust of life that leaves a residue and still sits in the air waiting to settle and be swept away. I watched tears for a loss, yearning youths misty eyes. Another mans tears as I hold the hand. Burst, because we exist, because we exit too soon, because we cannot backpack backwards and ripen a rotting fruit to somehow flip a nickel to the time keeper to press pause and to skip back to a time to correct an emotion to better explain a love, the form of a former self.
The form of my former self
– Victor Ross II

The art of poetry. Victor Ross II is known for his chiseled jawline and being a hard working fashion model based out of Los Angels, but what many do not know is that he is also a painter and a poet. Here we give you a taste of a fashion model who speaks volumes. Visit his page to find links to his books at

The Mountains We Make
And as we exhale 
What has this day done to me.
Living like dreams could only be touched in dreams. 
It’s the perfectness, that escapes me when I’m with you. 
It’s the weightlessness I feel when you wrap yourself around me. 
It’s the sleep that keeps me connected to you. 
It’s the sleep we touch each other in. 
It’s the dreams you keep inside of me. 
It’s the eyes I’m lost in. 
It’s the crescent sun and a piece of the moon.
It’s the valleys we see the light through and the beautiful Mountains,
we make.
– Victor Ross II

Photo by Gregory Prescott

Photo by Que Duong

Dawn and Ashes

A crisp yellow sun smacks the black out of the sky
and orange drips like candle wax
and every shadow that had a name, forgets to whisper
the sun rules the day yet once again.
sleep loses it’s hold on gentle souls
and the body wakes what the dreams didn’t take,
the spirit wrestles the devil in the velvet horizon
and another soldering day 
another work at play. 
A sweet fight of love and grace and the shit the world tosses your way
until the sweat and blood evaporates.
Until the brass colored sky sinks through the rays into your ocean.
The moon can’t store all the dreams and prayers or crossed fingered whispers
make stars your safety deposit boxes in the sky
and keep your hands clutched around the beautiful things,
until dawn burns and becomes ashes fading, 
Be soft and warm inside your cliche 
Be the purest you can be,
between breath and exhale
– Victor Ross II

Photo by Sylvie Blum

Photo by Sylvie Blum

Photo by Sylvie Blum

enclosing eyes
I don’t get butterflies anymore when she enters the room. The fleeting of flutters, when wings have fallen silent on an empty floor.
Though I still find her beautiful and I get lost in lovely lonely secret memories of her. I see her and there is a rush of the past that snaps back like an echo in the crack of a branch in the Forrest.

I remember her eyes just the way they are now. No new mannerisms. Just these new shoes and I wonder if a man bought these for her. I don’t care because I feel our history out weighs the honeymoon and I’ve seen more sunsets in her eyes to know that I was never looking in the wrong direction. I wish I could lengthen the wick for some chance to lengthen the night. Some nights are never meant to fall asleep as in nights like this and I ask myself. “what if these butterflies opened their eyes.”
– Victor Ross II

Photo by Gregory Prescott

Photo by Tarrice Love

Her Smile Cut Me
Her smile was shaped like glass when it breaks. A little chipped piece got caught in my flesh. My arm just above the bicep. I think it was meant for my neck meant to be quick and painless like cupids arrow. The shards of her smile cut me. Her sharp smile broke off the edge of her mouth. I seem to be caught in the waves. Between storm and peace. Between fire and halo. Between absolute and destiny. My potential and the best of me. I let her smile affect me.
– Victor Ross II

A piece of the sun
I’ll wait for you under the setting sun, between your skin and shadows. Closer than breathing a cold shadow tried to hold my hand. I let it touch me slightly to fill the chill. It’s when the shadow persisted to stay, that is when night fell into sleep buried itself beneath the ashes of leaves in the garden. The breath that we can’t take and it was you I felt inside the shadow. The innocence we can never gain back. I fell like the wicked sunsets and the clouds that tear against the sky. When the sky rips apart and we melt into the darkest burning stars twisted into the seams. Can you feel our pull our world our orbit, without my presence? A poem molded over my tongue and twisted off the edge my lips. The last of me. What will I become when my poetry runs out? When the poems fade and evaporate from my soul, my body, my blood. Evaporate like your kiss on my lips. I remember every little thing between your skin and the shadows you left behind. The last piece of poetry whispered far enough to be heard yet too soft to echo, yet gentle enough to be picked up by the wind and carried to the softest part of the sky. I realized that I will never change or quit. I will continue to love and tell you this in as many breathes and poems as I can write in this lifetime and continue into the lifetime after this lifetime. Think of the language we will speak then after everything we know is bruised and crushed and buried beneath the ashes of burning sunset. and we are risen to the stars and what if we don’t become the brightest stars, and we become the darkest burning ones. I don’t give a fuck as long as I am a piece of the sun with you. The drugs we used to use to keep the world happy fizzled to just the presence of you was enough. One day I will begin to write the last poem ever written in this world because of you. I’ll wait for you by your next breath.
– Victor Ross II

Photo by Gregory Prescott


Photo by Quest Antonio


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