Remember when games. 

Remember when I used to post several times a day on Facebook? Instagram? Read all the blogs?

Yeah okay probably not. But that’s just because  vapid and shallow is the way of social media. There is a high turnover rate. Here one day and gone the next. It’s a flawed mentality, but it gets us by. It might even do us some measure of good. Who am I to judge that? (Remind me to consider this one day when I’m not busy considering something else.)

Whatever happened to that person, I don’t know. I just haven’t had much to say lately. Or much worth saying. It’s all good. There is plenty else to read. I just got to thinking about how lonely I was. It was just a way to stay in contact with other humans. Reach out. Connect. It served a purpose. I don’t regret it anymore then I can guarantee I won’t be that person again. I kinda hope I find a middle ground between writer’s block and writer’s vomit. But, I’m about as good at balance as I am brevity. 

Which is to say, I’m not. 
Not good at that shit at all, bitches. 

Still, one can try. And I, being that particular one here, tried. A long fucking time. But I kinda got tired of trying. And now I’m sorta more so just into being. I need to do some being for a while. 

Just being. 

Fucked up. Hurt. Angry. Happy. Adventurous. Sad. 

Really, really sad. 

I’m that sad girl. Yeah, that one. You all know exactly what I mean. The one who writes and has been written about time and again but who no oh actually wants to be. 

I need to find my footing. My roots have grown brittle. My limbs are tangled and twisted. My leaves look brown at best, I am sure. Or maybe yellowy, over hydrated by the Salty waterworks that drain from my eyeballs in the most humiliating way and at the most humiliating times. 

One time I was sitting there on the bed with this guy and he was like you want me and you know it. And all I could think is that his face was so gross. And the words coming out of him seemed like the worst cologne I’d ever smelled. Like how could any human being on the planet want this? 

But, I didn’t say that. I just shook my head because I knew my words would just get me into worse trouble. 

Worse trouble. Who needs that, exactly?
Some times in life you realized you’re fucked. You know it. Just, there is no way out. None. No manner of words or use of fists or firsts forecasts is going to change what you have coming to you. And rationalization and revelation aren’t going to deliver you. 

You just close your eyes and pretend to be someone else, somewhere else and hope that you’ll find yourself again when it’s over. 

It all comes around again though. Because life is a circle. 

The Angel’s Demise. 

Darkness and sadness,

wildest of madness,

that’s his prey.

Pitless self pity,

mourning mortality,

suffering silently;

the hunter awakes. 

Ambiguously going on,

Aimlessly along. 

     Just hands. 

    No hearts. 

    No persons,

    Just parts.

The black angel plays cards here. 

Twiddles his thumbs and

dances a smile-sneer. 

Waits. Imagines,

some things of old fashion. 

Licks at his memories,

shakes, and then visibly 

projects his thirst into my mind.

Projects me his sign. 

Rejects me in time. 

Misplacing memories. 

Displacing things in threes.

Hitherto I’d hide 

exposing my soul only in rhyme–

all whispers. Some truth,

hidden in lies

nestled closely in lines. 

Temptations cut up and slice me. 

Outlining too nicely,

the impressions and have-to-bes

rattling loose inside me. 

In a moment; tranquility,

In this moment’s insanity,

Disguising the tears with the red,

fight the fears and the dread, 

While so subversively, he sings. 

And Oh! The peace that it brings. 

If I could loosen my grasp!

Make peace with at last.

If but for only this one small thing,

the one fact that remains,

l see nothing new on this table.  

And nothing old I still can’t handle

No, not yet. 

There is no grave

no yesterday,

no place,

No insurance that saves

nor collects tips 

for the brave. 

No nothing to say

which no nothing can displace,

or so dark and so horrid

which death can erase

or discard of. 

Anything, anyone can start over,

with determined eyes and 

perspective mind;

the power of will. 

Beating  softly, haughtily,

greedily, but still. 

Excited; giddy and silly. 

Making real of the really. 

Taking freely the free. 

Forsaking all things quietly. 

Swallowed up by the easy. 

Pinned down by the pleasing. 

Perhaps tomorrows,

will be first of few sans sorrow. 

An empty canvas, so stark

Ready to fill with the dark. 

Without horrors and habits. 

Lacking the traits of the west,

sacking the old ways of the past.  

You never can tell

exactly how long

it will last. 

How quickly 

it will all end. 

Just wait a while, then 

hesitate. Smile, just about when

his cards begin clicking and clattering

making flippant his flattery. 

Smoke curling from under 

his deep black-hooded hunger. 


Clove! Oh! Roses!

But, they sure do allure me. 

“Here kitty kitty

You sit so pretty.”

His promise, sticky sweet,

personal, discrete.

But, to distant memory, he’s author. 

Too distant a memory;

the father. 

Caught in the wash and the spin. 

Caught up by the thorns once again. 

A strange feeling, 


It aches. 

An elective 

of hate. 

The left overs 

of all give and no take. 

It’s all brewing, 
desperation stealing and screwing 

the inspiration it gives. 

The inspiration; it leaves!

His perspiration, I breath.  

Close my eyes,

see the dark side. 

Visit dim-lit castles 

of lower level paradise. 

Back over coals, he does rake me,

Through crimson seas, he does take me.

Where the tide eagerly awaits me. 

Laps at me, tastes me. 

Eats me up, hatefully. 

Chapped and burned,

blistered and torn by

a fireball in early morning. 

One shiver, one cry,


opened eyes. 

Scared but alive!

Burnt up, then revived. 

With one thing on truth’s side:

In smoke he may hide,

but in ashes, I rise!


Fuck you, all your fuckery. 

I mock you with your mockery. 

Can’t fool me with such foolery!

The promises you make in the day

are not bonded past grave. 

They’re worthless and wasted

on those who cannot taste it. 

A liar whose lies 

stand on the promise and prize 

that cannot be redeemed. 

Cannot be released,

until quite naturally 

we find rest in our peace.  

Thirty-five times here,

I’ve still got no lines here,

And maybe it’s not time here,

Not for me. 

Not for me. 

I’ll be just fine here. 

I’m still alive here. 

Your W o r d s

You never waste your words.
I can taste your words.
I breathe them
as you speak them.
I need them,
need to believe them.
Later, when it’s still,
when it’s quiet,
I know I will,
you know I will…
I’ll repeat them
until I bleed them.
Until I no longer
need them.
Then, I’ll release them.
I’ll play with your words.
I’ll replay all your words.

How to grieve

They always tell you that nobody grieves the same way. It’s absolutely true. It’s also true that you don’t really have a lot of control over which way will be your type of grieving.

Some people cry a lot and get it out of their system. Some get really drunk. Some just feel overcome by a depressive state.

Mine is by mostly trying to avoid my feelings because I don’t have a safe place to put them. I enmesh myself in the other things in my life. Distract myself with tackling problems that are easier to solve. I don’t think anyone is able to deal with the intensity of my emotions and so, in my heart they tend to stay.

Of course, that isn’t to say they don’t come out in other, unexpected, ways. The other day someone close to me said something to me, and all I heard was the voice of my father coming out of his mouth. And for a moment I snapped. I just snapped. I looked at him with fury–which was merely disguising my hurt–and he looked at me like I was a stranger.

A complete stranger to him.

“You’re so unpredictable”, he said. “I never know how you’re going to take anything anymore. I can’t say anything to you.”

Yeah, well, that’s how I feel too. I feel unpredictable and I just want to go back to when I was… Reliable.

But ain’t nobody got time for that. Right? No. They really don’t. Nobody has time to put up with my grief. Because watching someone unravel is hard. You’re helpless to help them. And nobody wants to feel helpless. So, they push me away. Keeping themselves safe from my storm.

I get it. I do. My mind understands it’s not personal. By my heart feels rejected. I could really use knowing that if I go crazy for a while, I’ll still have something left. But, the evidence is that I won’t. I will have nothing left at the end of this. Absolutely nothing. I’ll be forced to completely start over and I’m not sure I will have it in me.

It’s a scary reality I am struggling with facing. Where do you beging again? How do you begin again when you’re whole life falls apart?

Ah, but life is a bitch and you just don’t get what you want so much of the time.

The second best way to avoid your feelings is by processing them through others. Finding someone else who is also hurting and put all your care into them. Make their tears your tears. Their complaints your complaints. Live vicariously through their meltdowns, because you know you aren’t allowed to have your own.

You subconsciously think things like, maybe if I’m a source of loyal, endless support to these good hearted, hurting, people, then I will earn the right to have my own meltdown. And maybe someone will look at you and say, “hey. This girl usually has her shit pretty well together. She’s done more good than bad, at any rate. She’s been there for me. And I wanna be there for her now. I want to make her feel safe.”

But that never happens. Instead you just grow attached. You fuck your head up real good by loving them so much that it physically hurts you. And maybe it even hurts them. Somehow. Maybe you’re dependant on the distraction and when they no longer need you–and I assure that times always comes. Always–you find yourself faced, once again, with the depth of your own sorrows. By then, of course, the socially acceptable time frame under which people will put up with your mourning will have ended.

I’m a good listener. I give really fucking good advice. But, I rarely have any for myself. Or maybe I’m not ready to face my inner therapist. Because I resent her for knowing what to do and not knowing how to do it.

I’m a fixer. And I can’t fix myself.

It’s a curse.

Intensive Care

I observe death,
Watch it
Praying, loudly
with passion,
and conviction,
for it to make a turn
and come back to me.
To us all.
Silently wishing,
as time continues,
dragging on and on,
and still I see no signs
of recuperation.
Or restoration.
And without the element of
or miracle,
or even dumb luck,
on its side…
That it would just give in.
It its sleep.
Like a true victim would.