The Actual Hell Your Drunk Ass Just Write?

Day of failure ends in awaiting exhaustion.
Insomnia will cause my artistry.
Insomnia will cause my insanity.
Insomnia will be the death of me.

That’s just the uppers by day and downers by night, you idiot.

Blaring music through my headphones.
I hate that when I move my hands to type…
There’s friction through the wires.
And I can hear it.

Also brings to light the unintentional jaw popping
Popping. Popping. Popping.
All this enclosed popping,
Firing back at me.

A reminder of the control…
I am lacking.

Song on repeat.
“Leave me out with the waste,
This is not what I do.”
But it is.

And it’s not the song,
But the passion that fuels me.
Because I am lacking.
So, I analyze it.
The song.
Finding meaning where meaning
May not exist.

Perhaps my problem is
That I write with restriction.
Remembering the days it used to flow out of me.
Like a caged bird set free,
Making its way home.

But I am living the wrong life.
Escaping it is my conviction.
A prison sentence.

Too weak to break through these bars.
Too much pressure on myself.
Get drunk every night so I do not care.
I am sick of this life…
But I no longer have it in me to put up a fight.

I know that’s not alright with you.
Or you.
Or you.
But I beat myself up over sharing my own desperation.
I need not worry if you will, too.

Because honestly,
If you can’t love me in this moment…
Fuck you.

This is my backhanded way of saying thank you,
To those who love me. 

I possess a beautiful craft within me,
But instead I choose to bicker.
Too much pressure on myself
To deal with my own time-restrained failures.
So, I just drink beer.

My craft is artistry (sometimes).
My craft will cause my insanity.
My craft will be the death of me.

That’s just the uppers by day and downers by night, you idiot.

I hate my craft,
With every particle of my being.
But I must do it.

And I’m all out of beer…

And this jumbled form of expression
Will amount to nothing.
And tomorrow I will find myself,
Still living the wrong life.

Song on repeat.
“Leave me out with the waste,
This is not what I do.”
But it is.

This jaw popping is driving me nuts.

Dear Mr. Eldridge *Trigger warning*

When the day breaks, I nearly forget who I am.
Air is tight. My skin, heavy.
This face I wear, is not my own.
So why is it attached to my body?

What is this body…?

I go along with my day.
I know, the fog of the past will reach the ground in time.
Face to face I will be, with reclaiming what is mine.

I realize,
I may have never actually known myself, my face, or my body.
How could I,
When I was nothing more than one of your possessions?

All of me belonged to you.
Down to my every thought, every emotion.
You were the very thing that fueled my every action,
And reaction.

I’m headed home, now.
Such a long time running.
I’m worn down.

Do you remember who I am?
Do you ever think about what you did to me?

I saw your face in the nonexistent shadow of pitch black night.
I ran away from your memory, in the light of mid-day.
It was obvious to me, my strength was fading.

Pin me down beneath your cruel, somber, expanding flesh-
For only one more day.

I saw the clear of the moon’s reflection.
I don’t need, not another second.
Take myself back to that day. First grade.
I decided I didn’t want to look pretty, anymore.
No more dog print dresses, shiny black buckled shoes, or French braids

Just sweat pants and sneakers,
I thought.
I won’t even brush my hair,
I thought.
I’ll play in dirt and I won’t shower,
I thought…
You would leave me alone, but you didn’t.

No matter how hard I tried.
Refusing to be dolled up- Pig tails and mom’s perfume.
You just wouldn’t.
Play thing.

And now that song you used to sing, each night as it was time for bed.
Put me fast to sleep, so you could begin touching me.
It rings in my head, like some sort of Buddhist chant.
Like the universal “hum” of the earth rotating.

Reminding me…
Of my purpose…

You sick son of a bitch.
Did you think you would break me?

And what? You walked free?
Because you never used your tiny dick, to rape me?
Did you think fear would eradicate me?
That I’d remain small and quiet?
Worried that you would one day find me?

Let that fog come. Let it wash over me.
You do not have the power to suffocate me, anymore.

6 feet tall, but you are so fucking small.
Taking advantage of a little girl.
You must truly feel awful,
About yourself.

What grown ass man needs to overpower a child?
Just to feel some sort of validation?
Am I expected to feel some sort of humiliation?
That I constantly allowed a man to conquer me,
Based on mere intimidation?

I’m all grown up now.
And yes, the damage you caused still lives within me.
But so does knowledge and strength and courage.

Face to face I stand, with reclaiming what is mine.

You picked the wrong little girl,
You sick son of a bitch,
You picked the wrong little girl.

Don’t Read It

All I want to do is create.
My passion,
I hope to use one day to ease this financial burden,
I didn’t ask for.
Although, this means so much more,
Than making a living.

My soul is crying out.
Pieces of me are dying,
Every day that I waste time NOT writing.

And this generation,
Said to be more self-centered than those that came before us.
We have the Renaissance.
The scientific revolution.
The age of enlightenment.
We have the signing of our constitution.
And yet another revolution.

That last one,
You must have learned about in high school.
But let’s not get too ancestral.
I know it’s easily forgotten,
When your mind is overflowing,
With the opinions of other men and women.

After all,
The key lies in modernization…

So what do we have now?
The social media era?

And what will come of all that has begun?

When all you have is 140 characters,
And if you say too much,
No one will want to read it.

Every word I write,
I fucking bleed it.
But if it ain’t a selfie,
A text from a fuckboy,
Or a cute cat video…
This generation doesn’t see it.
They don’t need it.

But my dreams will not be jaded.
This fire within me will never die.
An attempt to extinguish it,
Will leave me feeling suffocated.
So this hunger I have,
I must feed it.

And one day I’ll be able to say, “I made it.”
There’s no doubt about that,
It’s for this day I live,
And I WILL obtain it.

And half of those I know right now,
Will see my posts and probably scowl,
“This is too long, I won’t read it.”


*Side note: In case you were wondering, yes, “When your mind is overflowing with the opinions of other men and women” is totes stolen from Sherwood Anderson’s “his mind filled to overflowing with the words of other men.”

A few things:
1: I don’t normally do this sort of thing. (Ya know, plagiarize dead people.)
2: I just REALLY love the quote.
3: I don’t think he’ll mind…


Rice Speck

I have the day off from my soul crushing job today (it’s really not that bad, it’s just not writing.) Had an appointment thing mid-morning, came home, ate, took a shit, meditated, and now it’s been time to sit down and write since like 3:30.

And here I am, staring at my screen, obsessing about the piece of yellow rice that is on my living room floor. I vacuum just about every day, rarely ever going more than 2 days without doing so. I have no idea where the rice came from or how long it has been there. How long have I missed it while sweeping? Was it lodged in some corner or crack, and is just now suddenly appearing? Did my cat or dog find it and attempt to eat it?

Because the history of this rice speck is sooo fucking important…

Now, if I vacuum the living room floor, I’ll have to vacuum all of the floors. If I vacuum all of the floors, I might as well do the handful of dishes that are in the sink. If I do the dishes, I’ll find myself wiping the kitchen counter. If I wipe the counter, I’ll have to wipe all of the surfaces, everywhere.

By that time, I’ll be thinking about bathing my cat, cleaning the hamster cage, clipping my dog’s toenails, clipping my toenails, reorganizing closets and cabinets, cleaning the litter box, dusting baseboards and blinds, windexing windows, cleaning the fan, making the bed, deep cleaning the toilet and refrigerator, and checking my cup of pens to throw way the ones that are out of ink.

Hours will pass and I’ll build up an appetite. I’ll cook, eat, and create dishes. Then I’ll have to vacuum the crumbs, wash the dishes, wipe the surfaces…

It’s best I stay right here. Talk, well apparently write, myself through this ludicrous, completely mental idea that a rice speck is actually having any sort of impact on my day. Because it’s not really about the rice speck, is it?

Perhaps it’s about fear or intimidation or doubt. Perhaps it’s about having to do something that can, at times be relatively challenging, while the rest of my days are filled with tasks that are rather simple.  Perhaps it’s something a little more mental than all of that.

But it doesn’t really matter….

In fact, I can get up, throw it in the garbage, come right back to this desk, and get to work on what I always say is one of the most important things in my life- what I claim is my passion.

Or I can sit here, keep myself fixated on it, while simultaneously yelling at myself “just write, asshole”, accomplish absolutely nothing, and then lie awake tonight thinking about how I wasted my time today.

I think I’ll just throw away the rice speck…