Time Bomb.

I'm learning a lot. 
I feel so much.
Words filtering.
We're growing up. Things are different.
It's a scary place of unknown worlds. 
Like Arabian seas,
empty sanded deserts--barrel cacti. 
But we're not dead.
Life is whirling,
like a dream of blue and grey skies. 
Some rain.
Some sun. 
Hold up your hands, whaling.  
Learn to smile. Even when it hurts.
And remember how many times you say the word "I". 


Remember where you came from.

No matter what, I have my faith, and I have a Being that will unconditionally love me. I need to cling to that. 


Cameo Clocks.

I questioned time today.
What makes something worth our time more than something else?
What is *really* valid for spending it on?
Is work worth my time?
Or relationships?
Time spent reading or writing?
Time spent with music?
What about time spent alone?
I swallowed a clock and was swept away in the crest of a wave.
Tic toc. Tic toc.



I have so much to say. So many filtering thoughts and images flinching through every pulse.
I was informed of my negativity. How my writings are dark and scary. It may have been a poking finger, a slam down, but it had truth. Maybe I shouldn't bare my soul for those who choose to read to see. That should be kept in private perhaps. Everything should be written down in journals, where they can join the other heaps and stacks of them filled to the brim. I won't write the scary nightmares, the anxiety, the anguish anymore. I am sorry if I offended others. I guess only positive things for now on. I can be fake too. I can flash a smile. 


..turn over a new leaf..

There are so many colours on this earth that correlate and work together--like the bursts of orange and pinks in a sunset. Slate grey and black on a rainy day.
The bright green in a frog's eye with black pupils. Golden summers and blue, clear skies.
We're the colours. We work together.
You're all the colours that paint a beautiful picture.
Baby, you're remarkable.
This morning I woke up to tell you I love you.
Because I do.
And always will.


inches and falling

I try twice as hard, and I’m half as liked.
Suddenly between sheets and eyelids I am reminded why I don’t do this.
I fall in love far too quickly.
I never want you to forget me when you’re gone.
Will you call?
Will you write?


Well, I did it. I got inked. I love it and feel weird at the same time. It hasn't sunk in yet. 

My beautiful friend Taylor that went with me. =) I wish my best friend didn't have to work. =( 

My tattoo artist, Mikey

Taylor got Nintendo buttons. She is a nerd like that. ;)  


Be Calm.

As I walk through the streets of my new city
my back feeling much better, I suppose
I've reclaimed the use of my imagination
for better or for worse, I've yet to know

but I always knew you'd be the one to understand me,
I guess that's why it took so long to get things right.

Suddenly I'm lost
On my street
On my block

Oh why, Oh why
Oh why haven't you been there for me?
Can't you see, I'm losing my mind this time?
This time it's for real, I can see

The tops of trees are turning red
The beggars near bodegas grin at me
I think they want something
I close my eyes, I tell myself to breathe

and be calm.
Be calm.
I know you feel like you are breaking down.
I know that it gets so hard sometimes.

Be calm.

I'm scared that everyone is out to get me.
"These days before you speak to me you pause."
"I always see you looking out your window."
"After all, you lost your band, you left your mom."
Now every single crack, every penny that I pass,
says I should either leave or pick it up
But with every single buck I've made
I'm saddled with bad luck that came

the moment I was baptized 
or when I found out one day I'm gonna die
if only I could find my people or my place in life
a when they come a'carolin'
so loud, so bright, the theremin
will lead us to a chorus
where we'll all rejoice and sing a song that goes:

Oh be calm.
Be calm.
I know you feel like you are breaking down.
I know that it gets so hard sometimes,

Be calm.
Take it from me, I've been there a thousand times.
You hate your pulse because it thinks you're still alive
and everything's wrong
It just gets so hard sometimes

Be calm.

I don't remember much that night,
Just walking, thinking fondly of you
Thinking how the worst is yet to come
When from that street corner came a song
And I can't remember the man,
The panhandler or his melody.
The words exchanged had far exceeded any change I'd given thee.

This is my new favourite song. I italicized every lyric that really pertained to and struck me. That is one of the reasons I love Fun. so much. I can relate to every song in some way. I love how down to earth they are, how creative their music is.  I love the bands that have influenced them. It's amazing how little things I have thought about and have never brought up to anybody they have wrote songs about. It makes me feel somewhat better about being in such a bad place mentally. *sigh* 
 And the great thing is is that I have wanted a tattoo of some sort to remind me to calm down, and breathe. I drew up a tattoo last night. It says Be Calm. with music notes around it. I am getting it next week. I am really excited! Have a good day people.

p.s. I am amazed at how many people read my blog every day--I am not quite sure how I feel about it. Sometimes I feel like I only show the darker sides of me on here, but I guess that is usually how I get my feelings out. 


The Truth.

Myth #1 – Introverts don’t like to talk.
This is not true. Introverts just don’t talk unless they have something to say. They hate small talk. Get an introvert talking about something they are interested in, and they won’t shut up for days.
Myth #2 – Introverts are shy.
Shyness has nothing to do with being an Introvert. Introverts are not necessarily afraid of people. What they need is a reason to interact. They don’t interact for the sake of interacting. If you want to talk to an Introvert, just start talking. Don’t worry about being polite.
Myth #3 – Introverts are rude.
Introverts often don’t see a reason for beating around the bush with social pleasantries. They want everyone to just be real and honest. Unfortunately, this is not acceptable in most settings, so Introverts can feel a lot of pressure to fit in, which they find exhausting.
Myth #4 – Introverts don’t like people.
On the contrary, Introverts intensely value the few friends they have. They can count their close friends on one hand. If you are lucky enough for an introvert to consider you a friend, you probably have a loyal ally for life. Once you have earned their respect as being a person of substance, you’re in.
Myth #5 – Introverts don’t like to go out in public.
Nonsense. Introverts just don’t like to go out in public FOR AS LONG. They also like to avoid the complications that are involved in public activities. They take in data and experiences very quickly, and as a result, don’t need to be there for long to “get it.” They’re ready to go home, recharge, and process it all. In fact, recharging is absolutely crucial for Introverts.
Myth #6 – Introverts always want to be alone.
Introverts are perfectly comfortable with their own thoughts. They think a lot. They daydream. They like to have problems to work on, puzzles to solve. But they can also get incredibly lonely if they don’t have anyone to share their discoveries with. They crave an authentic and sincere connection with ONE PERSON at a time.
Myth #7 – Introverts are weird.
Introverts are often individualists. They don’t follow the crowd. They’d prefer to be valued for their novel ways of living. They think for themselves and because of that, they often challenge the norm. They don’t make most decisions based on what is popular or trendy.
Myth #8 – Introverts are aloof nerds.
Introverts are people who primarily look inward, paying close attention to their thoughts and emotions. It’s not that they are incapable of paying attention to what is going on around them, it’s just that their inner world is much more stimulating and rewarding to them.
Myth #9 – Introverts don’t know how to relax and have fun.
Introverts typically relax at home or in nature, not in busy public places. Introverts are not thrill seekers and adrenaline junkies. If there is too much talking and noise going on, they shut down. Their brains are too sensitive to the neurotransmitter called Dopamine. Introverts and Extroverts have different dominant neuro-pathways. Just look it up.
Myth #10 – Introverts can fix themselves and become Extroverts.
A world without Introverts would be a world with few scientists, musicians, artists, poets, filmmakers, doctors, mathematicians, writers, and philosophers. That being said, there are still plenty of techniques an Extrovert can learn in order to interact with Introverts. (Yes, I reversed these two terms on purpose to show you how biased our society is.) Introverts cannot “fix themselves” and deserve respect for their natural temperament and contributions to the human race. In fact, one study (Silverman, 1986) showed that the percentage of Introverts increases with IQ.
It can be terribly destructive for an Introvert to deny themselves in order to get along in an Extrovert-Dominant World. Like other minorities, Introverts can end up hating themselves and others because of the differences. If you think you are an Introvert, I recommend you research the topic and seek out other Introverts to compare notes. The burden is not entirely on Introverts to try and become “normal.” Extroverts need to recognize and respect us, and we also need to respect ourselves.

~Adam Young 


“To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything and your heart will be wrung and possibly broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact you must give it to no one, not even an animal. Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements. Lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness. But in that casket, safe, dark, motionless, airless, it will change. It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable. To love is to be vulnerable.”
― C.S. Lewis
     I don't want to be vulnerable. I am scared of love. It takes me a long time to truly love someone. I build walls instead of bridges. It's a protection mechanism. I have a love for sensory-- for tangible things. I love holding hands. I love staring into eyes from a corner booth, wordless. Expressions. But to truly give love to someone? I feel trapped then. Entangled. I always get hurt in the long run. Sometimes I feel that it would be better to never claim to be more than a one night stand. But that's wrong too. There's not a drug for heartbreak. Alcohol and cigarettes don't do enough. It's never enough. There's always so much more at the surface, like bacteria on the head of a pin. 



I had forgotten how much I love potting plants.
The roughness of dirt on my skin,
the smell of earth radiating my nostrils.
Breaking of crammed roots to make a bigger home
in a new pottered vessel. 
Transplanting to a new habitat.
Water tinkling like small rivers,
moistening the soil and providing life to the sprout of green. 
And watching it grow, grow, grow. Its tendrils reaching up to the sun.

This is an Anthurium plant that I received as a Valentine's Day gift. ^_^
It is a South American rain forest plant that loves warmth and humidity.
They are used to receiving water and indirect sunlight on a daily basis. However, they are not accustomed to standing water. They typically grow on trees. Apparently when  rain falls on them in tropical rain forests, the water immediately drips off, and does not pool around their roots. This allows their roots to receive moisture, while also receiving exposure to air.
I am fascinated by plants. I miss working at the the flower shop. Let's hope I can keep Florence alive. Wish me luck.



My thoughts are sallow and feeble.
Tears stinging like apple vinegar.
Cursed blinking of the stars
And satellites.

Words filtering.
Late and present.
I pucker at the
Sour, bitter moon.

While a ripened summer peach
Swoons in.
Its branches lay across
My thumping, aching heart.

Letter in February.

The woman is complete and perfected.
Feet saying we have gone so far,
And now it is over.
Bottle of wine now empty.
A petal-free rose, torn and ripped.
The moon can not be saddened,
Looking down at her now.
Timbers winding up, up into crooked
Shoes not fully worn, not enough creases
Not enough footsteps.
Not enough miles walked.
Broken hearts and sadness,
Havoc tossed like angry seas through
Weak, paper hearts.

For you, Auntie. You will be greatly missed.



I saw my life branching  and twirling out before me like a clusters of grapes. From every tip of every vine, like large, fat, juicy grapes, a wonderful future beckoned and winked. One cluster was a husband and a happy home and children, and another was a brilliant stylist marvelously sculpting ordinary people into goddesses, and another  was an artist painting canvases abroad, and writing beautiful poetry, another cluster was Europe and Africa and South America, and another cluster was Marcus and James and Oliver and a pack of other lovers with queer names and exotic professions, and another cluster  was an Olympic figure skater, and beyond and above these grapes were many more I couldn't begin to make out. I saw myself sitting in soggy mud of a vineyard, starving to death, just because I couldn't make up my mind which of the grapes I would choose. I wanted each and every cluster, each and every vine, each and every colour. By choosing one I would lose all the rest. As I sat there, indecisive, the grapes began to shrivel up and go black. One by one. They plopped to the ground, dead, into the muddy earth beneath my feet. Worms eating them whole, and moles eating the worms. 



The marching parade presses onward
faces, encircling around a beach
up the stairs, down Parkway Avenue
Racing against daylight.

Acrobats, clowns, and elephants one by one, 
clothed in flamboyant, aged garments
wrappings, hats, jewels 
snickering, and chattering madly

I can't glean if they catch my gaze from afar,
on this curved bike seat 
a crooked expression and a toasted
everything bagel, or if they are looking straight through me.

I'm too dull to be in a yellow jumpsuit
I'm too emanated to revisit here
to fly a line, the loud teasing of a
squawking bird reminding me of a primeval time.

Muddled and exhausted, I collapse to 
the grains of sand below my toes
and pillow a pile for my head,
resting in the warmth of the sunlight

I sing to my self a song of silence
my mouth, babbling rearwards 
wielding every breath and sigh as the
parade keeps winding by.


If I am Dreaming, don't Wake Me Up.

The alarm goes off,
like a slow, taunting dripping faucet
and I stretched from
Adam to Eve.

Inhaled the brisk air, 
From eyes to toes it fills me,

It rushes through my lungs,
my air capacity filling

I let out a sigh,
bid my farewells to the dreams of the night
as they danced away, 

into black and white
their colours faded

into fuzz
like an old, useless 
television set--

I embraced my elbows,

hugging them like a friend
my fingers trace the pattern of the down comforter
something to heave me back into rest

I am daring, swift
loving steadfastly 

blank, empty stares, 
but seeing everything

His smile doesn't overflow 
into a cute mess

It's wide and averse, 
it's strong

I realize I am once again dreaming.

And the vines expand,

entwining though
freshly painted windows.



It's that time of the year again..the stroke of a clock somehow equaling a fresh page, a clean slate, a new way of thinking and living life.  Counting Crows shoots through my head like angels singing "You go to sleep dreaming how you would be a different kind, if you thought you could but you come awake the way you are instead." I am me. Do I need changes? Yes. But I don't need a new year for that? My slate is full of blotches, lines, and sketches. Don't wipe them off to clear shininess. I am me. Flaws included. 


This is laid out flat, like a map
whatever has meaning in life
must vex to a halt, a
meticulous picture of every­thing you need
and need to know,
can’t have, and won’t.
The perfectionists, the mad

no tolerance for
the sound of water boil­ing.
It’s coffee-time in seven
of seven con­ti­nents, and here
my cig­a­rette burns, 

yellow smoke rings.
That boy.

I hate myself for lov­ing
he sleeps under warm, downy blankets

I remain cold,
leav­ing me all too bleak


Nights like these
the weak take over
Creeds clos­ing in
promises of com­fort
Acrid endings.

No time for confessions
I am still blinded by the sun, 

Always arising, coming up
pre­dictable as crops
At all hours does this heart of mine

Waxes equidistantly.