Send me your track
again.

There’s that voice inside of me that pissed off at me AGAIN
that itch in my veins that pumps harder the more I ignore it.
the voice I have trouble expressing that scratches inside my soul to try harder.
whatever it is, whatever it means - I’m dealing with it again and every time I deal with it- it becomes louder, stronger and pokes at my most inner questions, annoying them. Reach deeper, see more, listen closer, do more, be more, who the fuck am I if I can’t figure out what my itch wants me to scratch????????????????

… i will not go this long again
missed Tumblr!!!

can’t find the words to fit the track……. perfect!

may they hang ;)

tonight

I published all the drafts I’ve written here in my tumblr blog when I couldn’t reach a pen and paper, when I typed out my feelings but was too scared/frightened/embarrassed/ to be heard or judged.

They are all out now, I let them go.

Judge if you must, I feel encouraged to let it all out, be what I am, give the room and significance to let it out and let go.

Goodnight to today, I look forward to a new tomorrow.

(lord I hope the balls hang in the morning and these posts stay after - I hope they continue to be published after the noon hour lol ;)

Sunshine

naked baby butt

broken A/C

markers

fruit snacks

scilence

growing imagination

time passing slowly

even when I prepare, it never fails

i

get

hurt

and just when i thought things were on a solid, (well paved, with attention to detail, pretty, happy, sparkly, jesus thank you, I knew things would get better!) track- an illness that seemed as though it was being controlled…..was i a fool to believe the show that was acted out in front of my eyes?

I blossom in his love, it’s obvious. I shine with his smiles, it’s like a daily nutritious meal I thrive off of.

after I met him, I thought all of my trials and errors and tears within bad relationships were to prepare me for the bliss of being with him. I thought that I was being prepared as a human, a student of life- to grow, accept, understand and have a wealth of experiences to know how to handle, respect, understand and deeply love you as much as I ever thought I could love another person who is not offspring.

but yet, the times he hurt me, the way he hurt me seems all too eerily familiar. the ripping of trust i held so proudly and sure of all seems like a harsh joke- something I thought I was sure I had with him and would battle anyone who would dare to contest.

to break a promise with me and then making a new promise to his friend is sour to say the least.

what a fool I am to fully believe that I was given the blessing to live life to the fullest and love the way dreamers dream about, the way poets cry about, the inspiration in which romantic scripts are written, the way artists feel from what they think they receive from their muses,  the way I love him…

such a fool to see myself as a different person in the mirror- a child only am I.

It’s always good when we’re on cloud nine, the love is superb, the decisions roll by effortlessly, the little things are little, a smile still stands strong when your face hits the pillow at night next to the partner of your dreams… and what a high it is to be tired from laughing with the person you seem to think was made just for you…..

and what despair when hurt has hit, tears have been shed and he neglects the basic essentials with out leaving even a root to hang on to, with out a word, he leaves to go have fun and forget that anything wrong ever happened. His intentions always differ from mine, his intentions are like a basic instinct to benefit the best for him.

the future is full of opportunities with a wide open mind and a carefully corralled heart. i need to ground my emotions and speak the truth to my heart and let it know that it does not matter how much you love a person, how much you do for them, how much you change this from that and stop this to do that for another person… they can only love as much as they want to… and when i see that it’s not enough for me then I need to open my eyes to the harsh reality of truth.

the sun will rise again tomorrow but, instead of the glistening, beautiful day i see ahead of me, I will have those choices to make that seem bitter and blister my spirit.

If it’s all in perspective, give me a partner who will benefit from my struggling and grow with me, beside me, and love me the way I can love.

i painted my nails

waiting on him

i took a bath and shaved

waiting on him

i dont know if my hormones or i picked up a virus or if my depression made me sick

waiting on him

i bought a new bra and panties and spent $30

waiting on him

he helped me today

while not sober

he looked me in the eye today

while not sober

he kissed me for the first time in two weeks today

while not sober

he asked me (finally) what was wrong today

while not sober

am i doing these things for myslef like I’d like to believe? cause at the end of the day, it sure seems that no matter how detached I may think i’m trying to be from him, all my actions seems to scream for his attention which he’s not seeing and why the hell am i feeling let down?? point= this is why the detachment is suppose to be happening. Stop letting myself get hurt. it’s obvious  that this is what’s is real. it does not matter what I say, what I do, that I scream about, what I pout about or if i don’t do sh,it at all. He does what he wants to do and I do what I feel like I need to do. it is what it is

releasing after a storm

 (I wrote this during the crazy tornado season after hearing that my Aunt and Uncle’s house was demolished and leveled; I suppose this was my way at the time to release the anxiety. A lot of it doesn’t make sense. I had forgotten about it until today……)

Experiencing one’s self with nature and hearing her story like being told through a Nanny reading a bedtime story. Which is so beautiful, so peculiarly softly spoken among the vibrant intensity of the all her color, and all her broad life.

 

She feels the metamorphose of her temperament

The lazy breeze becomes bored, modulates into a devoted brat and aggravates intentionally.

 

Eyes to the sky, her satellites automatically tune in.

The monstrous anxiety rolls in on a nightmares best entrance.

 

The clouds seem to mock the pace of her heartbeat, steadily continuing to accelerate.

 

 

She welcomes Mother Nature in like an old friend but starts preparing for the uncertainty.

Eyes to the sky, the religion she grew to know, tired of

suckling on this terror she just can’t seem to detach.

Yet this terror had been sewn into her being inadvertently; sewn into the pockets of her raincoat she has kept for protection.

 

Troubled fingers hide in cozy caves next to her hips as they hastily scratch at the threads. And as one fiber untangles, the steam from her frustrated fingers activates another interlaced complication.

 

Both feet are cemented into instruction

not budging, not a movement uncounted.

The catalogue of directions could be interpreted in

any language if need be.

 

Mother Nature tests the strength of her cement and grows louder and brighter, cracking her seams.

Threats of violence are catapulted across the expansive clouds; she wants to be heard and the attention of all.

 

She changes the color of the sky and of the atmosphere maybe just to show off like a kind jab on the playground.

 

She awakens the over sensitive clouds, ruffles and shakes their feathers, injects them with angered jet fuel and whispers her plan. Triggering immense arguments and jealous emotion, greed and selfishness. Now ready to activate their task, each one build as high as they can while trying to out do one another. The electricity builds and what was that like a ride of bumper cars has now developed into a violent tangled mess of unstableness with electric, explosive, deviant races reaching for base.

She feels impregnated and distracted with this growing domination, while keeping count of each well known step of hers helplessly regenerating the negative power with in herself.

As best as she knows how, she keeps track of her battle plan and follows her every move. The electric responsiveness collides with her quivering reason. The cozy caves turn into a lawless labyrinth and the fiber mesh doubles allowing no breathing room.

 

The rain pours down desperately trying to get away from the turbulence within which gives the wind a partner for play.

 

 

 

 

my nightmare is wining

There was a house that love built- the frame I lived in, in which I tried so hard to improve our destiny.

A family I dreamed up, with the happy dog and all. one which is dissolving and has no chance of being saved anymore.

The dream has faded, the gut of hope is being disintegrated by the reality of what is real. 

promise of new life that life breathed into fresh taught veins by my dream and false hope which was yearned and needed so badly fades faster by the day.

A cruel, ugly nightmare who has found me quicker every year has devoured my comfortable living once again and it’s slowly killing my evolving stride. 

the fantasy was brought to life from a strong and passionately  played illusion- which haunts me now.

real from the deposits of the  depths of sorrow; calcification’s over the length of time- only beautiful to the eye of an outsider who knows no detail.

the last twinkle I held onto- the volume at which I heard it scream; I lived the life which I wanted so badly.

Now, none of this was real to me anymore. the truth hides in a full busy heart and wreaks havoc after I’m exhausted and empty. What a piece of shit - let’s me go on my way, being comfortable and minding to my new ways until I’m out of breath and depraved. Then, when I’m too frail to fight and I feel at loss and ready to give up-truth shows up and kicks my ass to a bloody pulp.

This dream is defeated. I don’t know how I failed. Iv’e lost too many pieces to catch up and glue them back together. This dream felt good, pure, real, true, what’s left of  my stride feels deformed and beaten.

I believe what I had in my mind could have been the happiness I saw and felt to be true, the honesty I needed. The glimmer I needed to feel and catch and felt that I had a hold on; i just lost my grip. It slipped out from my fingers, from my heart, from my vision.

Where are the lessons I’m suppose to hear yelling at me right now?

They aren’t there.

Where are my cues from the universe? The stings to remember the lessons I learned? Where are they? I feel pieces I’m loosing from myself. Maybe I’m too far down the path of turning back. Is this my first realization of being fucked? Will I be one of those sore losers of this world? My pain is not associated with the stings of lessons learned this time. I worry tremendously that I’ve been lost for too long now.

God help the lost- I pray I feel a cue to head back into what I’m suppose to grow into.

Im lost.

writting is easy because it involves no pre-production, no planning.

one constant i seem to be good at maintaining

a natural balance that is naturally constant:

as much as I seek the sun that brightens my outlook, warms my skin and recharges my batteries;

the shadows lull me into a silence that’s necessary.

An outside break from  an obvious outlook that I can’t seem to maintain on my own.

I feel the friendly reminder of the circles outside from my temporary madness kindly knocking …

the essence of the balance reminding me what it means to be whole so I don’t forget,

-have to take the good with the bad.

the suffering maintains the gratefulness in keeping me whole

if I keep these thoughts whole, the shadows different subjection and meaning offer much more, they get a break from screaming for attention.

They have a chance to represent the opposite view, they wait somewhat patiently like a parent to an immature child showing and representing the body of divine strength and ironic presence only when I think of giving up.

the most simple

thoughtless

routine

things

fail

at the most unconventional times,

-while utterly and perfectly poignant.

Immaculate in their stance

as they engineer the untaught.

oliphillips:

My Light is Your Life 
by Krištof Kintera

oliphillips:

My Light is Your Life 

by Krištof Kintera

note to self

typing is not the same as a pen to paper.