True Friendship

Feel friendship from the heart

It’s the best thing you’ll ever start

It’s a feeling that will never hide

From the heart, deep down inside

Someone who cares about you through good and bad

They cure the sadness, they take away the mad

It’s like a sparkle of hope in the darkest fray

A good friend is priceless; not bought and sold

Yeah, a friendship can get tired, and old

And it could fade out, like bleach on color.

For example, one party may feel smothered.

But when you find the right friend that is true.

Keep it close to your heart, and stick like glue.

A true friendship is the best thing to happen to you.

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11:24 P.M.

You’re staring at everything you hate about you.

“look at this fool,” you obsessively yawn.

You make this routine— the ‘self-hatred’ song.

Don’t you realize, the most robust conversation you have is with yourself?

You can’t let your esteem falter, like an unstable shelf.

Self confidence is a skill that takes time to create.

That little advice sure sets the mood straight.

How long it takes to hone this skill is never wrong,

because the self-hate thing can only last for so long.

Then you start to crumble in the ashes you make.

Of striving to be something else, something you died to fake.

 

The wave of desperation.

She says shes’ going to take him back because what else does she know. The man in a monster but she’s the kind to think just because he’s unfaithful sometimes doesn’t mean he’s not a loyal man. I can’t help but look at her like she’s crazy, but what do I care? I don’t have to subject myself to that kind of strain just to say I have someone who smells like outside all the time to lay up next to me. I have standards.

Standards that have to allow me to have seen my best life pass before my eyes. The ones I miss that interaction with human beings because put up a front that I somewhat am alone. The kind that has me wishing I had a family of my own. The type of standards that have scared me away from thinking I can’t get anyone at my age because I am too harsh and old to be loved by another human being. The kind that has to be relishing and embellishing my humor in my loneliness. The humming wail of my fan is the closest I have with interaction, with the noise that fills dead space.

I was thinking about my loneliness as I spent my day with friends and family, I wasn’t alone that day, but the creeping feeling of the not unspoken social contract all women are assumed under. That nuanced pressure I had in the back of my head had me feeling as if I am on a remote island, stranded. I was relishing my humor when I was visiting friends. It wasn’t the desperation of not having a partner that was killing me, but the question of why and if I should. Another calm in my waves of desperation.

243 Days of Night.

It has been 243 days of night

The bell tolls shollow and loud
to madam’s with broken souls,
collected like prized toys
decorated with repressed glory.
A walking legend silent in grace.
she’s charming, he spactates in awe
bask in garden hauls
an uneventful forgiving harvest,
it’s another way to feel alive.
Closed in a memory,
She realizes it’s too bright
day won’t come.
he can’t put up a fight
they won’t see the light.
She luls back to 243 days of night.

To An Empty Room

So, I am going to post this to anyone out there that might come across this and need it. I may be talking to an empty room. But I hope you can hear the echo from outside.

 

 

 

 

 

It’s hard to break personal, toxic ways of how you view yourself.  At the end of the day, breaking brainwashing is a matter of perseverance and self-accountability. It’s  admitting that way you use to damage yourself falsely rationalizing the trauma as “humbling yourself”, as you ripped yourself from lobe to vein. Everyone has a battle they are facing all by themselves with the enemy in the mirror.  The winner has the spoil of narrating how you interact with your environment.  The crown goes to the voice that is the loudest in your head. You are at the mercy of what every voice you choose because you can’t shake the noise.

You are worth more than your negative thoughts about yourself. The truth is, whether you believe it or not, you are loved, needed and desired beyond your wildest beliefs. Someone out there wants the best for you; even though they don’t show it and you don’t see it. There are always secret cheerleaders rooting for you like spies in the coldest of wars eagerly ready to pass along messages to their commanders.

It is not fair to yourself feeling and wandering in life no one is ever going to love or want you because of the things you used to do in order to survive your mental state at that moment in time. Hold yourself dearly, you are forgiven and loved. Embrace the thought you have compassion and empathy from others as little or as big as you make it. It could be a song that touches you, a friend you trust, or an activity you like to do. Know that you have an ability to touch others, even if you’re by yourself, is immense.

Change is not easy, nor will your outlook about yourself morph in a short amount of time.  I will say it is worth it. Starting small can lead to bigger, brighter things will nurture your growth discovering different aspects of yourself.  A great small way to start is to give yourself a short compliment. For example, “I feel happy”, “I feel the energy”, “I am loved”, and so on. You will be amazed how much it adds up in supporting a positive sense of self  Giving yourself little compliments can lead into exercising your curiosity in trying new and exciting activities, like singing or learning about art. Doing, making, and learning new things can also lead into meeting positive people with new ideas you might enjoy exploring.  New fascinating ideas made with budding friendships create ways to further mental and spiritual growth. It also a great way to make you smile.

I just want you to know that someone out there cares about you and to not give up on yourself, it’s hard not to feel like you’re not enough. but you are enough. Everyone is enough in their own unique way, and I want you to remember that you are the best person in the world that can do you. You’re a star.

Moses: One, iii

September-iii

I was so happy when we finally made our destination.  From afar, the odious Castile is out of place from the surrounding slums of Seafront. It was not that the people were poor; they did not want to rival anything the young dictator was doing or building. All skilled workers are employed by her. She forbids workers to use their, “skills” elsewhere.  “Adore. “ Moses candidly calls out to her estate. Adore is breathtaking. It had a classical yet, modern tone to the exterior, accented with large windows and cherry red lining. The front field is littered with blood red roses that also line various roads throughout her compound, the shades of red were so intense, the fallen petals looked like pools of blood.  I complimented Moses on her maintenance of Adore since her parents passed. She blinked twice and shot me a creek smile. I scooted a little more towards my door and told myself to reserve the rest of my energy for appreciating the winding road leading up to her front door. Interesting foliage scattered around lush green grass. As if, she wanted a bush at random spots in the field to her liking. I am in awe of her house. I never saw it in the official photos—she does not do things like that—nor even in the gossip news. It was an intense first time looking at it.

I did not realize the drive up to the front door was going to be another painful ten minutes. I managed the best I can to not look at Moses blow her nose away. It is horrid, to say the least.  As soon as the car came to a halt I leaped out as if it was still moving. and rolled on the ground seven times. Everyone just paused and looked at me like I hadn’t been here long enough to go off the deep end. It was extraordinarily disconcerting…..I could not believe how ominous and the stark white mansion was up close. I was thinking it was super elegant and modern from the gate,. Now that I think about it, as we drove up, it seemed to get cloudier.  I don’t feel like I saw this house and felt this weather when we got to the gate,  It was a very strange feeling of evil that lived in the house. Like a protective evil, I was scared.

A portly guard swished my door open and grabbed my right arm. He yanked me out and I swirled out of the car.  “Get inside” he snorted as he kicked my suitcase towards me. I was frazzled; I picked my case up and scurried in. Moses left to get something to eat and watch television. The guard, lead me down a large white hallway with deep red carpeting. The walls were accepted with poetry, pictures, and messages from Moses. I was shocked at a number of people working and filing through her grounds. It was as if they were consumed with the minor task that does not require the human emotions I was seeing. They all needed to look like they’re very busy was what I gathered. I overheard a woman freak out because she thought Moses’s pants shrunk in the dryer. Even though the instructions mounted in huge green letters behind her clearly states that ‘a little shrinkage never hurt anyone.’ I giggled to myself, as the woman’s hysterical cries were behind me, a blatant distant memory.

“You’ll be staying here.” The guard shoved me into a luxury suit.

My new prison quarter is gorgeous.

As the fat man slammed the door behind him. I waited a couple of minutes before I laughed and rolled around in my new cell. I was fully aware the responsibly of keeping Moses’s affairs in order is going to be very long and arduous. I was also excited that I was able to unwind in my chef kitchen or the study clear across the 4099 square foot penthouse. As long as she was good, I was good. Therefore, I personally took it to myself to make sure she was comfortable with me doing the job. After all, I believed the worst friends always give the best gifts.

Later that evening, Moses came into my room and plopped a large red book on my lap. As she walked away, she said it was the new manual of my duties.

I turned the television off and resided to myself it was going to be a long night of studying.

Stream

We stream fears

Like a river, It’s in motion,

Through mountains and valleys,

An exotic summer gray

To wash away on the beach into the ocean

We float on waves while carrying our graves.

Walking

I have a thing that I like to do. I like to walk. There is too much things and birds to see while I am driving. Moreover, I have to concentrate on the road, so I cannot really go and sight sees. Therefore, when I have the time, I like to walk around. I believe that you never take the same walk twice, even when it the same route over and over again.

I really do not mind the distance; I can just take as long as time lets me. it’s even longer when I have headphones in, sometimes, I try to walk to the beat I am hearing in my  ears. I have fun with little games I play with myself, the fast paced songs that I get to move around to are the best. Therefore, I take my time, and just walk. The imagery is never the same; one minuet there can be a cat skidding with anxious fever to get back to its other resting spot. Alternatively, I can see a whole drug deal go transact with safety in the neighborhood, right in front of the same house I walked past twenty minutes ago. It is never a dull moment when I just go out and walk. I find walks to be living reminders of where we are as people.

Trotting along the sidewalk has its added mental and health benefits. I do not know about them on my body, but I can say that each time I take a set walk it seems more efficient that the last walk, maybe because I my mind is not racing throughout the walks like they use to. I do not go where I am not wanted, I am reminded of who I am by each time someone shouts out from a distance. My walks are routine to places I know and have been before, I am keen on my safety. Too many things can happen because I walked down a wrong street carelessly.  Routine is my preferred mode operation of my walks.

Walking give me something that I don’t have to challenge myself or think about, It’s something that I still like to do independent from exercise, sometimes the best things are exercise but they don’t seem like exercise. Walking is one of those things that I really enjoy doing,  I still wonder if there is a places for me to be as careless and aimless other than my head. How careless and aimless walking seems in my head.

Trust

Writing is a tough one.

I want to be a famous writer. Before you laugh I would like to say, let small people have big dreams.

I wish I were the kind of writer that touches you because she was in her feelings one day and actually put out something meaningful.

I want to be the kind of writer that has cute bitches dragging her minks while she talks nonsense at a red carpet event. Not because she is nervous, but because she was with her hometown crew doing shit that had to make us turn our cell phones off because of my brand. By that time, my circle would be pretty much the same.

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drowning in a sea of my own self doubt.

One thing I have to side note: is that all of my friends talk a lot to each other, but we do not like to talk to outside people. It is a very small group of people. It is very cozy because they know me; the best party is the after party. So, we can’t record that. Nevertheless, let us put up the media friendly stuff.

I want to be that kind of writer that gets into public, destructive beefs with famous people because she misspelled a word, or did not put a comma in the right place. It seemed something so careless, yet created so carefully. Social media would have a field day, “We don’t believe you.” By then, id have to jump from that sinking ship, I panic, and do a media circuits back to my roots, humble myself and go back to writing in  small rooms.

It is extravagant and tacky, breaking mainstream takes practice, patience and. Right now, I am grasping at the rudimentary levels of writing, only to slip back into something that makes no sense when I read it later down the road.

It’s hard to stay motivated when I keep comparing myself. Most of my issue is that I keep looking at the amazing things other writers are writing. How they can pontificate on—something I have to read—so eloquently and carefully. It is like one of those fancy craft beers that I read about in the papers, but will never get around getting a Groupon when i happen to chance upon a deal. (That is actually how I find amazing writers on the internet; sometimes by chance, it is exciting.) I worry about how I do not measure up, and it is a limiting thing to do, it would be easier to put thought to paper to screen, but then it’s like, I can get to one of those, then it stops right there. In order to have something finished, I would have to have some type of constant time I would block some time to practicing writing, there has to be some form of consistency.

Like an ill-gotten change in a once great shampoo formula, I am not consistent. That is the core why I do not trust myself as a writer. I can point to the countless stacks of unfinished plot outlines, screenplays, ideas, letters, stories, and so on. On the same side,  I cannot show you one finished project that I can truly say: I kept going with it. I have bookmarked on my computer the studies, stories and truths out there; that even if it is a crappy finished draft—it is still finished—and that is the heart of it all, isn’t it? The start of any real project is when you complete the first draft. Getting over finishing a first draft is hard for me. Setting goals, times and habits to write have all been nice and cute, but staying on that task, that is another story. Most of the time, I have the great idea, and then maybe glancing over it another day, it starts to read as such terrible idea. Therefore, I am always stuck on what to write about.

Having something to write about is on the same line as finishing a draft, I suppose. On the other hand, well, you have to have something to write about to finish. Having ideas come and go and not having the pen to write it down as it rushes in like a wave has, a huge hindrance for me, other than. I keep telling myself to carry a note and pen with me, but I always forget. Moreover, when I do get a rush of something, I am usually doing something else that should have my full attention, but obviously does not. it wouldn’t hurt to just put a pen and paper in my bag now that I’m writing about it. But I want to half way finish this out before I do something else to not do what I just said I thought I should do.

Going famous is not a reason why I want to write, I mean, the money that would come with fame would help with me not being able to follow through with most things, but that is not the point. The huge downside of being famous is that, you are famous. You are constantly under a close eye of haters, fans, and everything in between, it would be too much, I would be creating P.R. nightmares with my virtues and vices. I understand I need to relax and not compare myself to other writers, I mean, there is no point, and that hinders me more than anything does, because I do not write, which is even worse for me. One of my best bets is to pick a half finished project, finish it, and then send it out and, keep pushing. There are going to be vicissitudes with this, but I am happy that this one is in the books for my Frida Hollywood. I’m going to try to keep it constant.

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