my process of creation:

When I write I think I try too hard to make my writing pretty.. to write something somene else would like to read, instead of just writing what I want to say.. what I want to share of myself with the world. I have been writing for the reader and not writing for my own heart that cries out to be listened to, to be heard for once. I’ve decided today to write whatever it is I have to say. I will work on my skill and my form as an editor when I am ready to edit.. not as a writer. I’ve lost sight of what’s important to my work– the message, not the packaging.

I was going to share this message sooner but I couldn’t even put together what I was trying to say. What I’m saying is that, I haven’t been able to write as much as I wanted to. Along with all the reasons of why that is, overthinking has played a large role in why I haven’t. I’ve decided to simplify my writing as much as I feel I need to, just to get the words out of me. Editing will happen when editing happens. I apologize if my format is triggering to any of you. I’m breaking the box instead of feeling confined to it because I want to give my art a chance to become whatever it wants to become. I hope you all stick around for the journey (:

remain open

what was love supposed to be for you? tell me about all the preconceived ideas of love that have shaped who you thought you’d be. everything you thought love would be is nothing i have to offer. but what i have, is worth everything.

this is why you’re going to choose me.

i am youthful. my smile. my sense of imagination. my hope in the darkest of nights. i have been hurt tremendously. i still love.   and love.   and love. i love like a child. forgetting the wrongs. believing the good. forgiving.   giving.

i am soft. soft in every connotation you could imagine. my heart could not fathom impure intentions. i am a lover. lover. lover. i hated the word lover for so long because it’s often a word used to describe a person who you have sexual relations with. i need a word that means more, because my lover, i want to have relations with your soul.

i am a writer. i will write about your lips and how the fullness of them melts into the fullness of mine. how i love the way touching you,   any point of contact, feels like a submersion of me into you. i will write about the way your eyelashes look like butterflies resting on your closed eyes as you sleep. and the way they transfer to my stomach as your eyelids open to look at me. i speak in lyrics more than i do words. i write more than i will ever be able to vocalize. my mind is chaotic. words flying around in circles while i stand below trying to catch the ones that fit just right. the ones that make your eyes real enough to melt into when i read about them once again.

i am a hoarder of memories. like the way you smelled the first time we met. the feeling of sweaty palms the day you didn’t let go of my hand. or that monday in may, we devoured two pots of coffee and danced in the kitchen all morning long. my mind is a record player, constantly spinning, the sound of your laughter– your bliss. an endless soudtrack playing in the background as we snuggle into bed on cold nights. induging in the nostalgia, and one another.

maybe your ideas of love aren’t as neatly packed or clearly outlined as you believe them to be. it’s possible you’ll find what you’re looking for in someone like me. maybe remaining open to feeling, falling, living, will yield a happiness even you could not foresee.

prompt 1. introspection

i am all alone

once again

i spend my nights

lying awake

contemplating the present

trying to forget the past

daydreaming about the future

not certain of anything

but the understanding

everything is just

as it is meant to be

sweet boy,

i didn’t have the words for you. i barely had them for myself.

even if i did, there’s so much you didn’t know. you couldn’t have understood any of this. why my heart was breaking. why my legs were shaking. holding you in my arms. for the last time. watching my pain  manifest on your face. you were almost my son. i wanted to make you proud. as proud as you made me. with nothing but your smiles and the songs your heart sung. your optimism and your love, not yet jaded by this bitter world. i wanted to teach you things. things you wouldn’t have learned from anyone else. i wanted to share what wisdom i have with you. for we share a softness that the world will want to harden. we have a glow that the world will want to dim. life has a way of ruining things, before they can even begin. i wish, if not for more time with you, to relive every moment with you in our memories at least once more. or at least an infinite amount of times. then my heart will never have to break.

and you will never have to wonder   why i’m not there now.

to the writer

writers don’t drink to find inspiration

writers drink because  writing  makes  you  drink. writing makes you want to forget. to be a writer is to be vulnerable and to let other people see you at your lowest point. whether that be empty, regretful, chest bare, humiliated, bleeding, begging  or barely breathing. being a writer is brave. it is not work for the weak of heart or those who hide when their demons call their names from dark corners. when trying to write about certain times in my life, certain experiences, it rips me apart. it breaks my heart over and over again. one would think writing is a form of masochism. reopening every wound that has ever pierced my flesh or scarred my soul. writers drink because after the words reach paper, sometimes we are still left with nothing but pain. nothing but hurt. not just any hurt. old hurt. hurt that has had time to become a part of who we are. hurt that doesn’t go away. hurt that we thought we had forgotten. that we tried to forget because forgetting is the only way to keep on living. if just one person who reads these words feels a sense of comfort. comfort in knowing that they are not the only one. comfort in knowing that they are not alone. it makes all the pain worth it. and i will rip my heart wide open for you. over and over again..

to be a writer is not work for the weak of heart.

star-crossed

i miss you  everyday, but i’m not going to call. believe that it kills me not to everytime i remember your exquisite face. the way your eyes captured me. i want to but there are so many reasons why i can’t. why i shouldn’t. we see the world in varying perspectives. my perspective still shifting. yours seems to be as well. we are like magnets  pushing eachother away when we get just close enough to admire one another. if we were living in a different time, our paths may not have crossed. star-crossed lovers, in a strange sense is how i see you and i. ironic. all those night staring up at the sky together in awe. i just wanted to make you happy. but making you happy, it wasn’t making me happy anymore. you aren’t hard to love. that came easily. what was hard, was feeling lovable to you. i shouldn’t have had to try. no one is at fault. we just weren’t right for eachother despite how much I loved you. despite how much i planned for us to work. my planning made you uneasy. your blasé approach made me anxious. my anxiety frustrated you. your frustration hurt me. my hurt made you feel guilt. i would never write badly of you because when I think of you, i usually remember all of the good times. all of our jokes. all of our exploring. the way we would stay up all night cuddling between conversations on the couch, when we were getting to know one another. i think of our dinners. our dates. our time spent together, happy. you won’t feel like you’re too much of anything for the right person.

they’ll understand all the things you don’t say.

i wish that I could have, for i truly loved loving you. but you deserve to be happier than i could have ever made you. sometimes i forget but..

 

i deserve the same.

A,

our lives may never intersect again,   but this isn’t goodbye.

my experience with you felt like traveling in time. traveling  back to a place that i could have belonged to. in love with you. your fantasy felt more to me like my past life. a reenactment. you think you dreamed me up but it was i who summoned you. it’s so peculiar, all that you are. all that you were. all that you have yet to become. i, so much like a cat and curiousity is killing me. when it comes to you. i want to know everything. you are the greatest mystery of my life. the puzzle i will no longer try to solve. one day i will understand the meaning behind you and I. until then, i think i understand as much as this. there is a reason for everything. we’ve done unforgivable things to one another. yet, i forgive you. you hold a very special place in my heart.  i may have been a sentence in the story of you, but you were the prequel to the story my heart will someday tell. the story will exist because you still exist within me.

 

 

carman

i hate life for being so unfair to you. you have the purest heart. you make my world poetry. you make the hurt pretty.

you should’nt have to.

my tears come too easily when I think of what you’ve been through. i can understand why you feel you can’t keep going sometimes. i feel selfish for wanting you to try. the way you fill the world with such beauty, the way you make the shitty parts of life feel bearable for me are not fair reasons to ask you to stay with me. you share a part of my soul that no one else could. i wish i could protect you from everything.

disappointment. deception. loss.

one day, i pray that the sun will burn so bright and radiantly that it reaches the depths of your soul and cures every pain you have ever felt. that sounds like a fairytale and that’s not what life is like, i know. but you are too soft. you are too lovely. i hate this life for trying to taint your magic. i hate this life for being so heavy. you did nothing to deserve pain. and still you dress it up and make it beautiful. you give it a deeper meaning, a greater purpose.

you have made life lighter for so many.

your magic still amazes me every day.

you shine brighter than the sun in my eyes.

Escapist

You can find me, gazing dreamily into gallery windows in the middle of the night. Chasing waves, the moon, dreams until the sun begins to rise. Losing my sense of sentience as I lie below the stars.

Hopeless

My heart, made of fairytales and wishes, is much too pure to exist outside of books. Much too soft for the reality of this world.

Mr. Owl

How many tears does it take
To reach the center of my pain
It’s been months
My nocturnal companion
Will I ever sleep
Through the night again?

 

Risking It All

I am just another one of my unfinished thoughts.
Maybe this is the reason that I cannot fully understand who I am.
I am a page torn out of an old journal.
A page with just enough potential to save. To-
Finish later.
I am the first two chords in the chord pattern of my favorite song.
My favorite song, that I’ve never had enough patience to learn how to play.
I am the luggage from last month’s vacation,
Slumped in the corner of my bedroom, untouched.
I am the 8,006 unread emails in my inbox,
That I’ve been too overwhelmed to deal with.
I am a victim of my own inability to commit,
To follow through, to take a risk.
Because I may fail.
I may fail.
So I am a record, that never gets to play side B.
The makeup that doesn’t get removed until the next morning.
I am a collection of unwritten words, of unsung songs,
And unexpressed feelings.
So here they are.
I may fail.
But I will be whole.

 

The Currency of Life

Everything in life cost something
And I’ve become conditioned to ask
“well how much does it cost?”
But what about the things we pay for
With a currency other than a few US dollars

How come we never ask what it will cost
To be a woman
What it will cost
To be unapologetically ourselves
What it would cost
To be anyone else

Excuse me,
I’d like to know the price of pure happiness,
Please.

Maybe we just assume
That if we aren’t using money
It must be free

What is the cost,
Of being so naïve?