Cry For Help

My head be hurting from all the thoughts I won’t let out. From all the stifled screams and shouts, from all the what ifs, and self doubts, from all the pain, I insist on gaining,

because I can’t control my weight.

Because I can’t find the tools that I need to shape my fate.

I am fading. I am disintegrating.

energy, my aura,

my will to live is dissipating.

I’m reaching out

and grasping

at ghosts that cannot see me.

Perhaps, I am the ghost. perhaps I am just dreaming. All I know is I hear screaming.

A cry for help,

that can’t be heard through words,only seen in failures and slip ups,and mistakes and the fact. I don’t know how to give myself a break,the fact I don’t know how much that I can take, and I fear what I’ll do when I realize…

there’s no changing the person behind these eyes.

But for help, I still can’t cry.


Seventeen Again

I wish I was 17 or 7 again

I miss the not knowing

I miss the moment before I forgot what happiness was, before I forgot what purpose was, before I was statutorily raped, before I lost my way, before I was ripped away

from the only person that ever understood who I was..

Before then..

I wish I was 17 or 7 again.

the story of a heart part 2:

after finding a new route home from work, the woman began to think about what she saw on her routine walk home just two days ago on a dreary Sunday evening. she began to obsess over that bloody, beat up heart. her heart. she seemed to forget it was her heart. it was clearly her heart but had no sentimental value to her. she didn’t care for it. she most certainly didn’t want it back.

but for some reason she couldn’t stop wondering what happened to it. It had been a long time since she had seen it. much longer than she had previously thought. maybe somewhere around a decade. yes, it had been about 10 or 15 years since she had seen her heart. she knew that for a fact, or else she would’ve remembered what it looked like before the old brown blood had congealed, and the inside of it had become rotten.she couldn’t recall the feelings it made her feel, or the pathways it led her down. the people who may have touched it, stepped on it, punched it, pulled it apart, twisted, or simply left to rot. all she knew was that it was her heart, and it was bloody, beaten, and now scraped into the bottom of a gutter.

perhaps she she should go on a journey to find it.. to feel it with her own finger once again or at least what’s left of it. to examine it just a little bit closer.


perhaps that would resolve her mental conflict.

the story of a heart:

a woman was was heading home from work on a dreary Sunday evening.  she took a very specific route everyday.  it was her routine.

it was drizzling rain. the ground was barely wet. suddenly she felt something spongy and soft crush beneath her right boot. she stopped and peered down at her feet.

there it was.

her heart. she had been looking for it all day. or had it been all year or had it been some years? she couldn’t seem to remember. it looked as if it was covered in old blood. it was battered, pressed into the cement. stepped on at least 1000 times. scraped on and off shoes. footprints covered every inch of it. she poked and prodded at it with her finger to see if it could feel anything. it was disintegrating. it was barely a heart, it was nearly unrecognizable. she didn’t even know where to touch. she smeared some on her finger and smelled it. it smelled like dirt. this couldn’t be hear heart….perhaps she was confused.

but as we know, she recognized it because it wasn’t just any heart, it was in fact her heart and no one else’s. suddenly she remembered what it once was, yet she had no idea what it was now.

she scraped it all off her boot, and the sidewalk, and shoved it into the gutter with a stick. she pulled out some tissues to wipe off her shoe then she dropped to her knees and began to frantically wipe up the remnants on the sidewalk. the tissue tore against the rough exterior of the pavement.  she looked agitated and flustered. then she stood up from the spot where her heart was.

paused for a moment.

then turned around and headed in the opposite direction as if nothing had happened.

she decided she didn’t like this route anymore.

Wear And Tear

I wouldn’t be surprised

if my breath smells like death

and my words sound like loneliness

and my face looks like despair.


I wouldn’t be surprised nor would I care.

All the wear and tear looks the same to me.

sounds and looks and feels the same to me.


I don’t see how

anyone would want

to look at me.


I hate cleaning off the mirror.

I don’t want my image clearer.


I desire erasure.

I desire no face.

I desire no breath.

I desire staring back in the mirror

and seeing death.

A moment of hope arises.

I tend to write blog posts when I am doing terrible and feeling defeated, but what about the times when I am feeling hopeful and determined? I realize I simply never celebrate my accomplishments yet acknowledge every mistake I make. I tend to make huge mistakes, because I believe a lot of my life has been a huge mistake.

I was borne out of a mistake. My mother didn’t plan on having me, and then 14 years later she left me suddenly due to physical ailments. It’s like I wasn’t supposed to be here in the first place. It would have been less baggage to leave behind if she just had aborted me when she had the chance. My brother wouldn’t have had to dedicate his life to raising me.. so many things could have been better for so many people if I had just not been born.

I now for once feel appreciated, purposeful and hopeful for the future. I’ve acquired two jobs, and I am addressing the problems I have with myself by attempting to put habits in place that will help alleviate my problems.

I’ve planned out my meals so I can start eating more regularly again. I’ve stopped focusing on doing drugs as much (because I can’t afford it)

I’ve reached out to friends instead of isolating and avoiding.

I’ve talked to my framily (friends I consider family) about sensitive things that once plagued me and stifled me.

I am starting to open up. I am starting to notice myself, and figure out who I am. These are feats. These are accomplishments I am very proud of. I am making strides one day at a time and it’s a miraculous thing to witness.


Just My Luck

I hope I get to die young like my brother.

that dude is one lucky motherfucker.

I hope I get hit by a drunk trucker.

Or shot dead by a mugger

who just really need

that 1.50 I had in my bag,

man, I’m glad,

that’s all you got for taking my life.

I’m glad I’ll never be someone’s wife.

I’m glad I never meant anything.

I’m glad I have no more trouble to bring.

The grass will grow stronger, and the roots will grow deeper the day I get to become fertilizer.

I’m tired.

I’m tired of living. It just fucking sucks. But I bet I’ll continue to.

Knowing my Luck.

personal thoughts. the holidays are hard.


I’m collapsing under the weight of my shoulders

It’s getting harder to hold my head up.

everything feels heavy.

I think I may be mentally ill. gravely (at times) and I can’t afford to get any medicine to help me heal. I don’t know what to do or who to turn to.

I think because it’s near the holidays and right around the time my brother died I am feeling very sorry and empty inside.

I’ve been feeling very sorry since I spent the last dollar of my brother’s life insurance policy.

because of me his death is a waste. a sham.

I am a waste. a sham.

dark brown haired beauty.


dark brown haired beauty 

words coalescing up and down her curves 

shades of culture in her undertones as the sun glistens off her skin 

how can we access this gem? 

she’s not here for display 

so it’s okay if you never get near her 

choose to worship or fear her,

either way it’s a blessing for everyone

dark brown haired beauty 

from your curls to your locks, 

you tell stories of wonder with every strand 

still people struggle to truly understand 

what it means to be you 

no matter how transparent you become 

they can’t seem to see through 

they don’t want to take the time

 to focus their eyes

 on the picture your aura describes 

don’t waste time for them 

or make time for them 

let them be left behind 

and go blind if they please

they just don’t have the strength to see

dark brown haired beauty. 

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