I looked in the mirror, and saw a bearded bohemian wanna be poet looking back at me.

I saw your face again
and i heard trumpets
just like that song
said I would;
it must be love.
Back to the love 
and the pizza 
and all that is good.

Back to the love
and the pizza
and all that is good.

Hanging out with the Muses

Hanging out with the Muses

When is your birthday?

September 17th

I pinch myself,
hoping that this is only a nightmare;
reality sets in when I hear incoherent
screams - from all those nurses outside
and I notice the messy paint job on the wall,
‘imperfections everywhere!’ bellows my mind.

I want to find a distraction, but I can’t,
and that hospital food, served on those godforsaken brown trays,
makes my stomach turn like the tide,
and I wish I could shoot that tiny television,
but my brain keeps shouting, until it collapses
like a sixth grader coming home from school.

After the white noise sets in,
those horrid machines won’t be so loud
and these doctors will fade away - please let them fade away -
and all the walls will collapse around me
until my mind wanders off to my childhood.

My memories bring up old photographs,
and I remember every ounce of love she gave me;
this woman brought me into a cold world
because she knew I would make it a little warmer.
if you don’t believe me, just ask around;
a few months before I was born,
she declared to her family and friends
that I was a red diamond.

And I know… I know she’s gone,
but if I look hard enough,
I will find that she is still in my life;
when ‘that job’I needed doesn’t come through,
I will remember how she was
the first one to lend a hand,
when I was too scared
to open up my bank account
because I was close to being a bum;
and whether I was 6 or 24,
nothing felt better than
a kiss on the cheek, and a few
extra bucks from mom.

I’ll find her,
when a lover leaves me
and I hear her screaming ‘get over it’ in my head,
when I spill coffee on myself because I was in a hurry,
when I forget to bring that damn sweater,
when I find myself walking around
the house for no apparent reason,
when I actually stop to think, before I act like a lunatic;
look around, she’s there: in that Stevie Nicks song,
in that wonderful book she gave me that took me ages to read,
behind every ‘good deal’ that’s followed by a shopping spree;
REALLY look, and I’ll see that
my mother’s shadow is a part of my soul.

I’ll find her in the black waters
of a tranquil night sky; she’s resting with the stars,
and waiting for me to spot her, but I need to remember,
and find her with my heart, only then, will I find her smiling,
with the warmth of a thousand suns;
it’s the smile that greeted me into this world,
almost a lifetime ago.

I’ll Find Her (I wish I could have written a prettier poem for her)

This is for a friend

Old guys smell (Louie Season 1: Ep. 4)

by the end of
every night
i start to feel
claustrophobic -
the closed casket
again - because
my room turns
into a graveyard
and the ghosts
of my heroes
and loved ones
barge in to recite
outdated philosophy
and exchange
ancient smiles.
the graveyard in my room, julian budani
You're hot but you annoy me so bye



Annoying, yes. But hot? I guess, yeah hot too.

Just kidding because I’m not hot, and I’m not being modest. Why do you think that I had so much free time to write growing up? So, I don’t know what the fuck you are talking about.

But, I guess we should part ways because you’re very shallow, and I’m being annoying by taking time out of my day to work on something I love.


"Farewell Angelina
The sky is on fire
And I must go.”

You ask whether your verses are any good. You ask me. You have asked others before this. You send them to magazines. You compare them with other poems, and you are upset when certain editors reject your work. Now (since you have said you want my advice) I beg you to stop doing that sort of thing. You are looking outside, and that is what you should most avoid right now. No one can advise or help you - no one. There is only one thing you should do. Go into yourself. Find out the reason that commands you to write; see whether it has spread its roots into the very depths of your heart; confess to yourself whether you would have to die if you were forbidden to write. This most of all: ask yourself in the most silent hour of your night: must I write? Dig into yourself for a deep answer.

Letters to a Young Poet, Rainer Maria Rilke

(Take this advice and inject it into your heart)

A night without you
was total chaos;
the sheets mourned over your skin,
the bathroom mirror called 911 
and reported you missing,
the mugs were naked
and froze in the cabinets,
while your scent gradually faded away.

A night without you
turned up the volume;
I heard spiders surviving the rain,
the dishes singing in a high pitch,
and the opening and closing
of a door 167 times.

A night without you
covered the room with darkness;
but I found traces of your
fingertips on the furniture,
I saw your cosmetics crying for attention,
and I noticed the hollowness
in my heart, even before you left.

A night without you colored
the world in a shade of solitude
that made this bed feel like death.

Julian Budani, A night without you
Why do you love Ur girlfriend ..what makes her Special?xoxo

she’s what keeps me going when I don’t have any other reason

I don’t know
who told you
that bravery
only happens
on a battlefield,
it can take
place in
the smallest
chamber of
your heart.
I really like this guy, man. We're so comfortable around each other and things are just right with him. He kissed me, the moment was perfect. Talking about how he didn't want to let me go. But the next day he texted me, not wanting to start a relationship bc he has feelings for some other girl. I feel so stupid. So why did he kiss me? Why did he let me go?...

it happens in elementary school and it happens when you’re 30. A kiss can mean a million different things. It might mean the start of a new life for you, but it’s just a brief moment of affection to someone else.

If a kiss means the world to you, think before you kiss someone. Kisses are crazy.

I mean, just ask Brandon Flowers


When did you start writing?

I think I was 7 or 8 when I used to watch the show Ghostwriter.
Here’s the Wikipedia summary:

The 1992 series revolves around a close-knit circle of friends from Brooklyn who solve neighborhood crimes and mysteries as a team of young detectives with the help of an invisible ghost named Ghostwriter. Ghostwriter can communicate with the kids only by manipulating whatever text and letters he can find and using them to form words and sentences.

 I liked the idea that a ghost could read your writing and respond; they all had these really cool pens too. I was such a nerd already. I remember that got me interested in writing and I wrote a short story about a monster going into a movie theater.