To Help Survivors ❤

How long will you let them control you? How many years did you sacrifice worrying about the people who did not worry about you? How many nights did you cry silently because you did not want people to yell at your tears? How many years went by where you couldn’t focus on yourself because you spent nights waiting for their arrival in fear?

It is time to wipe those tears and embrace what you were always afraid of: giving up on the people who gave up on you. And it isn’t going to be easy reprogramming your mind back to where it was before it all happened. And perhaps, it will never be the same. But know, you survived like a warrior. You came out of a battle some people do not survive and some people will never comprehend. And it isn’t your duty to explain yourself, your reasons for staying, your reasons for going back, and your reasons for loving the people who could never love you back. Forgive yourself. For you had tried to face another person’s demons while facing your own. While trying to survive an already cruelly set up world. And in all the darkness, you brought a light. One so bright, it attracted the lost souls out of the darkness. It was not your fault. And trust me, for years you thought it was, rummaging through self help books, videos, and picking yourself apart to pieces. A task few people attempt to do for a lifetime. In the end, you realized you were not perfect but you were nothing like those who hurt you.

So shine my beautiful survivors. Shine so bright that the world can see you are every color of the rainbow. Shine from the moment your eyes open to the moment they close at night. Even if it hurts to try because you are so exhausted by now. You owe it to yourself more than anyone in this world to realize who you are: a survivor and not a victim.

Miss Magic Part II

The air smelled different. Even the clouds seemed to roll in differently. She thought to herself, what the heck am I doing here? Perhaps I have ventured out too far from the nest. She imagined slowly turning back, getting back onto the plane, and back to her childhood room. She imagined lying her head upon her mother’s chest as she cried, but then the thought repulsed her. She realized there was absolutely nothing for her there. No opportunities worth fighting for. It was a depressing, but at the same time, uplifting fact.

She wasn’t like the others. Her eyes always paid attention to her surroundings. So internally exciting by all the activity, all the faces, all the lights, and all the accents. Sometimes she would go home and practice accents, attempting to pull them off in public, and realizing someone either fell for it or might have thought she needed a 5150 (mental institution). Either way, it slowly didn’t bother her what people thought. Most of the time her brain was honestly so intrigued by the behaviors of other people, she felt like an outsider, with a non-narcissistic personality disorder unlike the rest of society. She thought to herself often I sometimes wish I had a cabin, could eat beans and rice, and be left alone to write. But it seemed like the world swarmed around her, even when she barely came out into the light, either intrigued or misunderstanding her.

Settling into seeing palm trees rather than pine trees was quite the experience for her as well. Still is. But she managed to find the redwoods, which made her feel like she was Alice Wonderland as she walked through them. She always had a way of finding a balance. To her, if something made her sad, there was something else to counteract it. Always an answer with enough research and persistence.

She spent most of her undergraduate working heavily as a server, staying up late with homework, and a pot of coffee. Lack of sleep induced psychosis happened eventually and she was forced to put the books down. She often thought, I wish there were forty eight hours in a day. Can the earth’s rotation change right now, please? It always felt like there were not enough hours in a day and coffee.

At times, even in the big city, it felt lonely. She wondered if Neil Gaiman ever felt this way? Margaret Atwood, perhaps? I think so. She’d convince herself to keep researching and writing. Keep finding inspiration as well and trying to give it back in appreciation.

The struggle was real. Like when a farmer asks you if you’d like a chicken, walks over, and cuts it’s head off, real. With no family support system nearby, working as a server, and trying to compete with those who might have had a bit more support, she felt sort of silenced at times. Money equals powers but let’s be honest, some people shouldn’t have money because they are honestly irresponsible with it. She often thought, they’re so dumb, they couldn’t even hire a decent financial adviser?  Then internally laugh, trying not to look externally crazy having deep thoughts like this at the laundromat. Until one day another quirky, eccentric, character like herself walked in to the laundromat. It was as if it was going to take a couple more run intos on Sunday evening (the weirdo avoiding time) for them to talk. But finally, she spoke:

“Uh. You dropped your underwear. Sorry I noticed.”

She looks down embarrassingly. “No. Uh. Thanks for noticing. It would have been more embarrassing if anyone else came in here.”

“No problem, girl.”

“My name’s Olivia. What’s yours?”

“Jackie. They call me jackles the crazy but I just act crazy. Please don’t tell them.” And she laughs hysterically.

It was at this point in time, Olivia knew it was like all the forces in the universe, like all the particles in the air, conjoined to form a planetary like friendship bond no other binomial nomenclature could possibly come close to. But then again, anything is possible. Olivia never rules out anything in life.

 

 

 

Bring Them Alive

I have to bring them alive and out of my head…

Or they will never truly be alive

And could end up dead..

A tragic waste, someone should have read…

Stored all inside my defiant head…

 

And I’m losing sleep as the words pull me out of bed…

waking me from my dreams to live in reality instead…

Oh I have to be alive and out of my head…

Oh why, she first cried, wanting to slumber instead…

Like a forgotten fragment time had led…

to a narrow path in the woods

instead of what Frost had said….

And now she still sits peacefully at the dead end..

The stillness comforts her, as she tries to mend….

Her feet from all the pathways she tried to bend…

Just to find something, she had in her head…

Just to find a way she could have led…

herself away from this place…

And into what she thought was reality instead…

But turns out to be a figment of her imagination

And in time she finds the soul is just intertwined…

Particles of space and time…

 

And she tried to climb the ladder,

blinded by the thought of it all being gone

Instead of just trying to remain strong

Holding herself up, while trying not to pull anyone else along…

in her already weighted down mind….

 

 

Oh, I have to bring them alive and out of my head…

Or they will never truly be alive

And could end up dead..

A beautiful waste that should have been read

A beautiful song, that should have been played..

Outside of my head.

 

 

Wishing Well

 

Standing around the wishing well
Wishing well…
Hoping that no one can tell
I have been here for a while
With a sad smile
Climbing all the paths alone
And I don’t remember when was the last time
I sang myself a lullaby
and it made me fall asleep
All I do is weep
for all the sad souls in the world…
misunderstood like me.

So I’m just standing around the wishing well
Hoping that no one can tell
I have been here for a while
So I can remember the smell of the pines
All the good times I created and left behind
at the wishing well….

And so it feels I tread all this internally alone…
Frozen feet to the bone…
Like a martyr, always standing alone…
Like a soldier, broken down and left alone…

So I’ll be at the wishing well…
Hoping someday someone can tell
I have been here for a while…
So I can remember how it feels to be alive…
So I can dream
Then toss a coin
So I can bleed
Then toss a coin
So I can seek….
And be my own.

A Woman Defending Her Freedom

VIDEO: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wxKV0wL71DI

If someone walks up and destroys a window of a business, they get arrested, right? If someone does property damage, they are usually arrested, period. Why is it when a man walks right up to the Donald Trump star, he is somehow able to walk away and turn himself in later? I don’t think so. You destroyed property and should have been in handcuffs immediately. If it was a Hillary star, would the outcome have been different? I think so.

When an older homeless woman stood by the Trump Hollywood star, with her signs and protection, she was swamped by a bunch of people. They called her a b**ch, ripped her signs, and belittled her so much she went into a dis associative state. A heavy set man aggressively came towards her, knocked her cart over and she went onto the concrete. Her eyes closed, and I noticed her frail frame shaking in anxiety. They judged her as mentally ill rather than just possibly without a job. Rather than ask her about what happened to her they told her to take her meds. This is disgusting.  Not only did they disrespect this woman’s right to vote, but they labelled her, treating her as if they knew who she was and what she went through. They also accused her of being a drug abuser. Honestly, not all homeless people are drug users.

This woman had signs which made logical sense. She had opinions and sentences that were more more thoughtful on her signs than I have seen on the majority of signs. Yet, they still label her. Perhaps, half of her issues are economical, environmental, and socially constructed by ideologies that are irrational and judgmental towards her. Perhaps, she is standing up for what she believes is right and will help her.

Regardless, this is an inhumane way to treat a person. I understand tensions are high, but in no way should anyone endure what this woman had to endure. If I could, I’d give her a hug.

The Dimensions

The curtains are stained with orange juice from the year before. The kids decided to have it in the bed one night, and well you know what happened. A fight broke out and she spent an hour cleaning it up as usual.

She wakes up and finds it strange  no one seems to be around. No yelling. She sighs with relief.

They always hang around the yard, talking about the latest football game.  She pretends she cares but she’d rather be left to do her own things. She barely even has free time to have it spent in such a boring manner, yet no one seems to ask her what she would rather be doing. But one day, she decided it was all about her from now on. Has since left the family circle, and formed her own filled with dreams.

A voice yells out to her. She runs thinking something has happened. It’s her son, wanting her to play basketball.

“Oh, John just grab one of the neighbor boys! I’m in my heels, I can’t do that right now!”

“Okay, mom.” He sighs and carries on alone.

Sure enough, five minutes pass and she hears a shriek of a child. She runs hysterically, finding John lying in front of a car. The ball across the street as if it perfectly landed there right in front of a long sidewalk. But her focus was not on the house across the street, but rather John. His limp body once full of the grace of an angel has the devils steal his light she thinks. All because I couldn’t just watch him. Tears roll down her cheeks, but as she looks up to ask God why he took her baby boy, her heart begins to race.

A house, not any normal house lies across the street. One she has never seen before. The ironwork magnificent, protective, yet graceful. A lion’s head creates the steeple and his tail wraps around the cone shaped roof as if it is protecting the house.

She realizes something is watching her threw the window. Large iron doors that look as if they cannot be opened await. She wonders if she pulls on them, if they will even open. She looks down, and John is no longer there. She thinks maybe someone poisoned her, or perhaps her medication is making her hallucinate. Panic overtakes her body.The sweat pouring out of her anxious body causes her to feel sick. Her home is no longer there either now. The only house left is the iron house.

Desperation is kicking in. No car has been in sight. She starts to believe maybe she is in some kind of simulation but the thought exits her mind quickly. Too many tv shows she thinks. After a few hours, she takes the chance.

The ball is still lying there. And as she tries to pick it up, it just keeps rolling down the sidewalk. As if it is some trick to lure her or maybe it is a joke. She has no idea what to think or who would think of this sick game. She grabs the door and it opens with barely a pull.

“Someone there?”She asks gently.

There is no answer. She walks further, slowly, calmly, but ready to defend. She hears something. Some kind of motor, a quieter one, maybe a toy?

A little boy sits in the living room, smiling at her.

“Hey!”

He doesn’t say anything. It is as if she is the first woman he has ever seen. He begins to cry. She hears feet running. It’s a man.

“Hey hunny! Why don’t you comfort him!”

“I, I, didn’t know it was my job.”she says.

“Well, that’s how it works. I pay the bills, you deal with this!”

“Okay, I get it.” She mumbles along.

He leaves. She sits down, realizing there some cigarettes. It’s weird though, they have a rather old looking package. She smells them, and they are fresh. Strange, she thinks. Lights one up. Stares at the smoke, as if she is waiting to wake up from a nightmare.

This isn’t real she thinks. But then she coughs. The taste is definitely there. She hates it.

She touches the child, and he cries. ”

He’s real. He is all real.”

Her husband walks in, “Hunny, are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m okay. I think I’m just hormonal.”

“Huh? Hunny you know we do not speak of these things. I just know.”

“Okay, sorry.”

She looks at the living room again, realizing it now has a strange looking television. A box like structure of wood around it. She doesn’t get it. The furniture looks like it is art deco. She thinks maybe 50’s or 60’s era.

“Am I going backwards?”she says.

“What was that hunny!?”

“Oh nothing.”

“I’m off to work sweetheart. I’ll see you in a bit. Try to make something good for dinner.”

“Sure.”

“Love you.”

“Love you too.”

She panics as the door shuts. She is in neither heaven nor hell. She is in something but she doesn’t even know what. She thinks, okay I’ll make the most of it.

She has to make a dinner in a kitchen where she doesn’t even know. She has to act as if everything is okay or she thinks these people will definitely think I am crazy. Just hold out she thinks, maybe I am in a coma. Hmmm.

He comes home, kisses her on the cheek when she tries for the mouth.

“Geez baby!”

“Oh, I’m sorry.”

“Let’s not be that way in front of the child.”

“Okay.”

He enjoys her meal but wonders about the inspiration. It is all the sudden inventive for such a woman like her. He praises her but senses some kind of change. He doesn’t know if he will like it or not in the years to come, but he believes in fixing things forever.

She lays her head down to rest and thinks of the life she once had. Her own child. Her own husband. Tears roll down her cheeks quietly and no one knows they are even shed but herself. This pains her. She falls asleep trying to accept the reality. Trying to leave the pain behind.

 

 

Drunk Writing Experiment

So..I have never done this before and I don’t why. I decided this afternoon I would drink some rum and write about nothing in particular just to see if anyone really gives a s*it.  I’ve decided I want to try to fulfill the drunk writer stereotype just for today and it is kind of fun but something I would honestly not do every day. Anyways, and yes I am throwing in a typical anways with a mother fucking comma like a cliche retard….right now I am listening to Eyedea and Krisoff Krane “Best Friends.” I think it is one of the most creative lyrical rap songs. Maybe it is honestly because rap lyrics usually are about tits, ass, cleavage and butt cheeks. Haha, I just said the same thing twice on accident. OH not really, just on purpose to get my message across. I really enjoy this song and I think I should invest some time into music reviewing. I just realized I listen to about just everything and I fucking hate people who say they do when they don’t. To listen to everything would mean you have been pushed to such boredom you must find something new everyday to listen to.  That sucks..and yes, I live in a shit town where I must do this but you know what? I don’t care because I have culture without the culture. I have been reduced financially as a poor student to find my only way of expression…which is compounded by a lifetime of influence no one thought would mean shit but I knew all along would eventually be admired by the general public. I have literally watched everything I listen to become mainstream. I am not going to be one of those people who complain about it but rather I think it is evolution of music. However, I think if a person has talent they should just start their own label. Do it and be it. You don’t need a contract anymore. Be thankful for that. I think writers should also be thankful they have access to such inspiring music without the need of money anymore either. It essentially makes it possible for writers to zero in on any genre, any artist, any medium, anything you fuckin want. We may think we do not have freedom as writers but we do now more than we ever have. It is an illusion they want you to believe you cannot have influence.

I write every fucking day not because I want attention but because I want to be an inspiration. I also want to appreciate other artists, especially in music since it has been the backbone of my spirit. In times when humans were not there for me it was all I ever had. And I believe I owe something to it. And maybe i dont owe anything, anything but really I want to make it right. It is like if someone buys you lunch,  you buy the next lunch. That is how I feel about anything that gives me inspiration. i have to take that energy and use it and by god I will.

Life is a quest for nothing; but it is in nothing that we find everything.