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. 

a pep talk with myself:



I’m easily discouraged due to my easily thwarted efforts to stick to anything. I am trying to create a routine that will give me a sense of stability and control although I have the desire to let my life crumble around me. I’m trying to add things to my routine I actually enjoy and not just do everything or everyone else because that’s in fact my problem. although I do a lot of things out of self interest too. like not be responsible. perhaps in a latch ditch effort to pawn off the accountability card. Now, I am trying to look forward. And just get through the day as I try to literally hold on to my last dollar. I can do this. I have success in my future.


Care The Most About Yourself: A Message From a Writer

What Is The Aim Of My Writing?


I think a lot of writers face this question when trying to figure out how to make a career out of putting a bunch of words together in a cohesive way: what is the aim of my writing?

I asked myself this question yesterday and these are the thoughts I came up with. I hope these thoughts can inspire you to get more in touch with your writing purpose as it did for me. Free writing is always fun but it’s nice to have a focus when you write too. I also feel like if I can’t turn writing into a living, personally I am utterly hopeless.

Although I boast about how much I love film, screenplays and the art of television writing, I never ever have written anything of the sort because I simply don’t know the format so it frightens me to try it with no structure. I am familiar with the general essay format of writing that’s been taught to us since 4th grade. It’s the style I tend to take on when I discuss a topic, which can be limiting. I also have a hard time categorizing these “cultural critique” or “personal narrative” essays I write, but I try not to get hung up on things such as labels.

One of the first things beneficial to identify is what I enjoy writing about the most. I love discussing things. I love analyzing thought processes social and personal behaviors, and the human condition. I obviously talk a lot about psychology because I have a healthy amount of knowledge about the subject and it’s a natural interest of mine. But what does this mean? I don’t necessarily want to research psychological studies or do any of my own research which is why I stopped pursuing school after my bachelor’s degree. Is it pointless to expand on my rudimentary level of psychoanalysis writing I currently produce in my free time?

Maybe, but the value of what I write truly comes from whose willing to pay for and appreciate my knowledge, or my analyses or my intense tangents about social behavior framed as discourses. Again… these aren’t backed up with very impressive credentials compared to psychologists and researchers. I definitely enjoy doing it regardless so I suppose I should continue to do it. I just don’t want to waste my time, ya know? because I’ve been doing that most of my life. I don’t want that to be displayed in my writing abilities.

I feel like not wasting my own time and not allowing others to waste my time has to become a priority in order to find the focus of my writing and who I am, which go hand in hand. It isn’t just a few moments when I’m writing I decide to be mindful about although that is how it starts. I want to make every moment count and I want to have an aim with most of the things I’m doing. Every single endeavor I take in life doesn’t have to aim towards my film or writing career but it definitely should at least relate to that purpose. I suppose writing articles does this by improving my ability to write and expand on ideas, a skill that is extremely useful in virtually every facet of life, not just my film/writing career. So writing once a day has become a regular habit for me (so far this week) and it has provided with me with a lot of insight about myself and my writing patterns. This is something I’ve noticed makes a significantly good stride towards finding my aim of writing.

I made a laundry list of all the skills I need to improve that would directly impact my writing skills, then I got into more personal development skills and some skills I need to pick up that I am lacking. It turns out a lot of these skills work hand in hand, and overlap:

  • film writing skills
  • acting skills
  • networking skills
  • communication skills
  • math skills
  • critical thinking skills
  • analytical skills
  • managing and preparation skills
  • anger management skills
  • aggression management skills
  • anxiety management skills
  • self monitoring skills

I believe the simplest way to become the best writer I can be, so that I can shape my life into the form closest to something I truly desire… is by taking one day at a time. Forcing yourself to have patience with yourself in every little moment patience may be required. I think that’s a good first step. If you can complete that step just pick something you know you need to work on as a person. Monitor yourself and praise yourself for getting better, talk yourself through the moments you get worse. Be patient with yourself. Love yourself. Just care the most about yourself.

Blog at

Up ↑

%d bloggers like this: