Two Little Pills

I have a poem for you all today about something I’ve been struggling with on an astronomical level. It’s something that’s been hounding me since I first started on this journey when I was 16 or 17. Take a read.

Take it, they say, and I do.

It’s for the better, they say, and I pretend

to believe them.

But there’s no better medicine than human connection,

than walks in nature

where the fireflies conjure

and the Cougars roar.

There’s no better medicine than a domestic cat’s purr,

than a puppy’s head rub,

or the bloom of a rose.

But take it, they said, and I do,

for I understand the consequences of moods

that are self destructive,

that cause more pain than happiness,

that force me to believe

everyone is against me,

even as the evidence proves otherwise.

Two little pills will not dictate my life

but they hound my moral conscience mercilessly:

“You’re feeding the demon, Big Pharma,

going against what you believe in,

what Karma

will that produce at the end of your life span

here on Earth?

You’re hurting your liver, your kidneys, your organs.

How will your heart feel after 21 years of torture

by two little pills?

Don’t you remember Prolonged QT,

or have you forgotten you’re getting a science degree?

It can cause a fatal Arrhythmia after prolonged use of anti-psychotics

and who knows this but you?

A psychiatrist won’t tell you,

a physician won’t tell you

and yet you take those two little pills

against your very own will.

This is all the voice in my head

the one that used to constantly want me dead.

Now he begs for me to save my life

by throwing away those two little pills

that cause me so much moral strife.


Check out this poem and more on my Booksie account here.


It’s not often I share a portion of my creative writing on this blog, but I feel like I might as well, it might help me get back in the groove of writing. I also don’t write poems often, nor do I ever follow any forms of poetry when I do write them (so cut me some slack on that, poetry fanatics) but here’s a poem I wrote last night just freely, without restriction or editing. I posted it on Booksie, along with the one following it, but would like to put it here as well. I’m changing the title to: “Veiled”



The truth has thorns,

and the darkness has arms;

happiness lies, and anger explodes.

We move along this common ground,

you and I,

a soup of emotions, ready to blow.

The nature of progression pushes us forward;

we move silently through strife,

and why, who knows.

Plant our feet carefully between mines

we know are there yet we cannot see,

and be, we try, with ourselves,

however bitter that may seem.

We come across a stream that flows free,

how we wish we could be,

blue, crisp, and clear,

with a purpose dear,

to this Earth,

and we envy the stream.

But free we are in the mind and heart,

as the stream can never be,

rejoice, I say, for we are unique.


the darkness has arms,

and we have voice.


This one is entitled “Freedom”. 


A renewing of strength,

I stretch my fingers, crack my neck,

I feel I haven’t lived for years.


The sun shines bright, an orange morning light,

and I wonder how long this will last,

this time I know this is real.


Birds chirp their welcome songs,

trees dance in the breeze,

and I observe it all,

a caged bird now freed.


A renewing of strength,

this feels contagious,

a bubbling pot on the stove not contained by any lid,

a new homeostasis.


This is freedom

in its purest form,

a feeling unmatched by others,

but envied by them.

Extravagant and glorious,

it makes you harmonious

with the past,


and future.

A trick only freedom can do,

this renewal of strength.


Let me know what you think.

The Night

I once saw a bear in my shower. Well, he wasn’t in my shower, he was outside of the doors halfway in my mind, halfway in the bubble of consciousness we call The Universe. Then I saw a spider, the size of my hand, and he was on the door until he wasn’t anymore. Then I was transported to a garden with a grey stone wall and a tree with those cherry blossom flowers, those beautiful pink ones, and in front of the tree stood The Hooded One, in white, and he turned to greet me, or kill me, and I was pulled back from his garden. He visited my garden, my room, he turned my cat’s eyes red, and I was more frightened then I should have been. We were tugged between two wormholes. Then I fell asleep.

One night I discussed the word “working” with an old jazz man. Boy, did we have a good laugh. He asked me how the word should be pronounced, so I laughed and said it out loud for him to hear, and for me to hear, but no one else. He repeated the word, and my laugh, and then said the word with a British accent, and an otherwordly accent, then he asked again, again, and again if he was pronouncing it right. He played some saxophone in the background.

In a house I called myself dead, walking the halls of death row, but I didn’t say it and my feet weren’t mine. There was silence and noise and I was followed underneath the streetlights by the man with only a skin flap for a face, no eyes, no ears, no nose, no mouth, only thoughts which he stole from me. I ran to my car and went home and waited until sunrise.

First I thought I was going crazy, or maybe a little loony, Luna, Lunar, I must be from the moon. Then I decided alien contact and demons and wormholes made much more sense than insanity.


Sleep and Bad Poetry; Nevermore.

An Anti-Ode To Insomnia:

Oh Insomnia, how you glorify yourself

in the twinkling midnight hours;

how heavy is your presence,

like a teenage pregnancy.

Oh Insomnia, like a whisper in the night,

gentle yet foreboding.

Oh Insomnia,

Fuck you.

Fuck your shit.


Fuck your mom. Fuck your brothers. Fuck your sister.

Fucking gets stabbed.

Everyone hates you. You piece of fucking shit.

Go die in a hole.

Oh insomnia.


Oh I have such a way with words. Everyone, it’s okay, let your cheeks flush, feel the mighty power of my eloquent words.

It’s 3:32 a.m. And for about the fourteenth day in a row, I’ve gotten less than a few hours of sleep. A phone call woke me from a peaceful slumber on the couch at work, and I stumbled into the office with a cat following on my heels. It followed me as I plopped back on the couch and crawled underneath my legs, never to be seen again, because it didn’t exist. Too bad, I could have used a cat whose purr could lull me to sleep tonight, real or not, I don’t fucking discriminate. In this day and age, in this fucking country (U.S.A), what is the point of discrimination anymore?

Real, Fake, Fat, skinny, black, white, brown, orange, yellow, small dick, big dick, ugly, beautiful, I could care less anymore. Just let me sleep.

Participation Points: NaNoWriMo


Homeostasis has kicked in once more, a terrifying reality, and my mood, once lifted, has again suffocated. I’ve missed two more classes once more, and although I’m adamant with positive thoughts, although I attend therapy regularly, although this medication helps at a minimum level, my energy has depleted once more, my attention as well, and there’s a crack in the universe.

There are feelings which often grip on the soul, and those are the ones neither therapy nor medication has ever seemed to help. I’ve done a lot of work over the years on changing my mindset, and I believe I’ve come a long way. I’m confident in many things. I’m not so confident in a few things, and that’s okay–you can’t be perfect. What baffles me is how terrifyingly relentless my brain is with attacks on itself.

That being said, I got home today and have scrolled through fifty million posts talking about NaNoWriMo. This is number fifty million and one.

imaginationland1If there is one thing that is always there for me, it’s my imagination. Whether it works against me with strange men following me in the dark and putting thoughts in my head, or it graces me with some short stories that have professors with a history of being published bowing at my feet–it’s always been there. It was there when I was five years old, often alone, and listening to the cars out in the parking lot talk among themselves. I would laugh with them and they would have personalities based on the size of their fenders, tires, and their age. The conversations took place in my head, but the enjoyment, the stories, were very real.

So I’ve decided to participate this year in National Novel Writing Month. I decided today, on November first, to participate. I have a pretty vague idea of what I want to construct, and it’s a bit out of my comfort zone but often that results in greatness.

Although I have much homework to catch up on still, I need to do this for myself. It’s a good dissociative technique for me, writing is, that lets me regroup, rethink, and reconstruct myself. If I finish the 50,000 words, which shouldn’t be a problem, then it will prove I can finish a project. I haven’t finished a project in a very, very long time. 

I never even finished the multiple (albeit horrifyingly bad) stories I wrote in elementary school. I was obsessed with several television shows, and would write sequels to them. I made one about a land entirely filled with video game characters and scenes. I even made one based on Harry Potter, the first real book I read as a child. I may have been 6 or so.

Doing things spur of the moment like this, and making a spontaneous commitment can sometimes end up in something extraordinarily grand. I’ve learned that over the years, I suppose. If I create something spectacular, I can look back on this post and say I predicted the future. If I create something ordinarily bland, I can look back on this post and call myself an idiot. Either way, I can look back on this post and have a thought about it. I like thoughts. 

I will say one thing about one of my writing projects in particular, the one I don’t like mentioning at all on my blog: I’m very proud of it. It’s come a long way since the idea first blossomed in my head when I was 12. That’s when I got my first laptop by. It was a MacBook.

Scratch that. It was an Ibook, the predecessor to the MacBook. This:



Yeah that piece of overheating, Itunes using, crock of shit. I still have it. It still works. It works like the piece of shit it is.

My father found it behind a NobHill grocery store. He brought it home and I started writing. The ideas were shit, the dialogue was shit, the plot was shit, the story was shit, and I thought I was the next pre-teen J.K Rowling.

Ha, you guys thought my first laptop was an actual expensive MacBook. Like I’d pay 2000 dollars for a computer. My fucking car cost less than that, and at least when it breaks down I don’t have to go and buy a whole new car.

Remember, you can still afford a doctor if you buy a PC.

Because the ideas started when I was around ten or so, the story has grown with me and learned with me. I’ve spent many years just learning lessons and incorporating them into the theme I’ve settled on in this potential novel. I stopped writing or tinkering with it for a while because I realized I needed more life experiences to make it how I wanted it to be. I wrote little fairy tale stories for competitions locally as a teenager, and won, and I knew in my heart of hearts that if I tried hard enough I could probably be one of those elementary school or teen authors who wrote the kids book or “young adult” book that captivated the state, or the nation, or whatever.

Could’ve Been Me

But I didn’t want to be that kid. I had, and still have, a very specific purpose for my writing. I’ve never just written to write. I’ve never just written to inform. I write to communicate. I write to hold mirrors to myself and to others. As a child I knew this. So I kept myself in the shadows and let others take the spotlight. Fifteen minutes of fame is nice. But something someone can read and put on their bookshelf and never touch again isn’t literature to me. It’s a story.

Stories are nice, don’t get me wrong. They’re very . . . cute.

Literature feeds the soul, continuously. For those of us struggling to understand life, for those of us seeing others struggling to understand life, literature is a way for us to reach out and say–hey, I don’t get it either, but here’s my interpretation of you, of me, and of everything.

I bow gracefully to National Novel Writing Month and whisper:

Let the games begin.

A Reason For Everything

I came here and ranted about the psych hospital but didn’t really explain how I got there. As much as I hate making posts all about “me, me, me”, I think my revelation on my walk today can also be beneficial for others. That’s usually the goal of my posts anyway.

The day before the police were called on me, I went into the forest. I also made a post about that, but not about my thought processes behind all of it.

Prepare Yourself

I’m very aware that I have a connection with the universe. I’m very aware that it knows my thoughts without giving me the benefit of know it’s thoughts. I don’t know what direction it’s guiding me or why, but I know that it guides me towards specific goals at specific times for specific reasons. I know this because of the feeling I get when I enter certain establishments, certain classrooms, talk to certain people–you just know that you’re where you’re meant to be.

I was lead to that forest for a very specific reason. It was by complete chance, to my limited human brain, that I came across the national park on the internet. I’ve looked at different national parks around this area on the internet millions of times and I’ve never seen this particular one–which is odd given how close it is to my proximity.

The first thing I noticed was the silence and the trees and the leaves. The leaves were like a neon green . . . but the day was dark and cloud cover completely encased the town in grey. There were only certain trees along our path with these colors. If I still had my Photoshop subscription, I’d manipulate a photo to show what the world looked like through my eyes.

case_4_of_6largeThere were lots of little gnats and moths and the trees were very loud. Not with words, but just with presence and enormity. I liked crawling in between them and sitting with them and letting them tell me it would be okay. The birds too. I tried to climb one, but being 50-60 pounds over my ideal weight and having been lazy the last two years of my life, I couldn’t really get far off the ground. That’s probably the other reason my blood pressure was a little high.

Which is partly why I’m walking more and changing my diet once again.

Anyway, none of that is the point. Don’t get me on another tangent. I’ve been on a lot of those lately. 

Now, after exiting that forest I felt like the universe really had my back. It was watching out for me. It could hear me screaming out mentally and it understood. When I returned that feeling had vanished. It was too hot, even under the cover of the trees, and that warmth I felt with the animals and vegetation had left. The only thing left was the three hawks circling right above me like I was a dead carcass–or about to be. Which I was.

It felt like I’d lost my reason to be here on Earth.

All my life I’ve been doing things with the universe on my side, even when I was a toddler I knew I had that connection. And now I felt like it has severed all contact with me. On top of that, my life is chaotic, unstructured, stressful, and I have no release. All of that lead up to why the police was called.

Something pushed me to go for another walk today. Also because I need exercise.

The moment I saw the monarch I understood everything.

By now you all know that I’m someone who strongly advocates for the spiritual and fantasy worlds. People call it irrational, but what I think is irrational is the idea that any one human being could understand all there is to understand about Earth, The universe, or even themselves. That’s irrational.

So I’m caught in a crossfire.


The Monarch isn’t just a butterfly, or a symbol of delicacy (for those bunches of you that like metaphors and similes and analysis), I see them as remnants of ancestors, of good spirits, of watchers. I don’t know where the thought came from, it just happened the instant I saw that first monarch.

More monarchs followed me along my path and that made me feel good because it lets me know I was wrong; the universe isn’t leaving me alone.

But something isn’t right. There’s a disconnect somewhere, a war. I mean, Trump is running for president. Come on.


Then I saw the ripped in half tail of a squirrel and it all made sense again. Those portions of the spiritual world that I feel watch me, that follow me, are at war with the portion that’s been guiding me. Both follow me along my path: a ripped bird wing lay in the middle of the walk way, along the path the monarchs followed me.

I wished I could speak the language of the Monarchs and understand more about what’s going on. I asked them to speak with me, but didn’t get an answer (is that a good thing?). I know these spirits embody every living thing on earth, including people, and I met a benevolent one in the form of an old man pacing back and forth on the grass of an apartment complex. He paused just to stare at me and smiled and I felt like a part of his spirit was related to the monarchs.

The problem I see with this is how can you tell the malevolent from the benevolent? Those “evil” ones, the ones that follow me and haunt me and rustle noises outside when I’m at Second Story at night, are tricky. They can play so many different forms.


Like I said, I’m caught in a crossfire. I’m in the middle of a war and maybe that’s why I’m here. Maybe I need to exist for that war to exist and maybe that war needs to exist because I exist and maybe without me and the war, life itself wouldn’t exist.

This is what I thought of while I walked and picked out sign after sign of the war. There are many.

And as I walked, one of my other thoughts was “how could I turn this into a story?”. 

And that’s when it hit me.

I’m aware that how I see things isn’t how everyone sees things. To me it’s truth, to everyone else it’s nothing. I’m not incompetent, much to the hospital’s dismay. I’m also aware that sometimes people get a little turned off and confused when people say things like what I’ve said above. But when it’s turned into a fictional piece, when it’s suddenly labeled “fantasy”, that’s when we get to call things symbolism. That’s when we regard it as a deep piece of literature.

And maybe that can help those of us who think differently and can turn our experiences into a piece of history rather than our own personal nightmare. Maybe it can help us show others that there’s nothing to be scared of. Maybe it can help us show ourselves that there’s nothing in our mind to be scared of.

Writing isn’t just a form of therapy. It’s a way to communicate.

The monarchs, by the way, followed me home. 


What Is Writing?

Good morning.

That reminds me of how I start my emails at work. Two words and a period. Is it strange that my monotony comes through even through written word to other humans? You should have read the email I sent to the psychiatrist. I read it back to myself a couple days later and confirmed that I did indeed sound like a confused sociopath.


Which gets me thinking: how much of your true self shines through in your writing? How much of a veil do you place over your face when you’re in public versus when you’re blogging? When you’re writing fiction? When you’re sending emails? How much does your interaction with other people contort your personality?

I’m under the overwhelming perception that we all adopt a separate personality of some sorts to help us navigate through the social aspects of life. People smile when they’re depressed, they compliment you when they hate you; they present one person and behave as another, sometimes on purpose, sometimes inadvertently.

reset_brain1In some ways I’m sure this mechanism is kind of like a reboot system for our brain. We’re constantly updating, constantly uninstalling, installing, and reinstalling programs, and sometimes we need to run in the background behind other systems to stay sane. When all else fails, we grab our trusty paperclip and needle the hell out of the restart/reset button. Sometimes we wake up with a major update like “no more bitch-face”, sometimes we wake up with subtle changes that protect us from outside predators that we don’t really notice.

I think our personalities run in the background. I think they learn things as we learn things and they’re the subtle changes that protect us. Life in itself is traumatic; who’s to say we don’t all have a little taste of DID?

Obviously not as severe as others. Don’t take that out of context like “oh Golly Gosh Alucard, that’s like saying everyone experiences anxiety or depression”.

Well, don’t take this the wrong way politically correct individuals, but everyone does experience anxiety and even depression. Some people have different levels of severity, for different lengths of time, for different reasons. We’re all human. I hate when people get overly sensitive about that kind of stuff.

If I were saying it to invalidate your feelings of anxiety and depression, then I could see you getting angry.


That being said, yes, I did compare humans to computers. They’re all different systems and I have to learn their algorithms in order to interact with them. Unfortunately, they short circuit often and I have no idea how to fix computers on that level. Go figure.


So I find it interesting that when people in my creative writing class read my work, widen their eyes, and stare at me like I’ve just snapped someone’s back in half with my mind. Then they say “you can convey and amazing amount of emotion through your writing”, “your descriptions are amazing”, “your characters are amazing”. And I stare back like they’ve just given birth to fifteen children with all the same hair and eye colors.

I honestly despise the majority of my writing. The curse of a writer, am I right, am I right? No? No one?

I only write what I see in people because I all ever do is watch. That has it’s advantages and disadvantages. And I write from a place not of compassion or love or anything positive; the majority of the time I write from a place of turmoil and struggle. That’s not to say I couldn’t write a soppy love story like The Notebook, or something motivational, and that’s not to say I couldn’t write something based on positivity rather than actual life.

But News flash: since when was a life without struggle interesting to read about? Even Luke Skywalker’s damn aunt and uncle were crispy bodies by the door.

I took that from a song. It’s on YouTube. “Bushes of love” or something. It’s hilarious.

But I can see the differences in myself when I write. Emails I feel are an inaccurate source because I will change my wording depending on who I’m talking to and therefore put up a pretty thick veil over their eyes and my eyes.

Take A Moment To Notice Which Traits the ONLY FEMALE has . . . I suppose prestige could be female, but they don’t give her hair and she has more of a male profile. Wtf kind of stupid ass picture is this. 

But in blogs I notice the difference dramatically. Particularly this one. My ideas aren’t usually as concise or organized as they are this morning, and usually I’m stuck in a perpetual state of suffocation. But today I am neither. In fact, I’m nothing. And that’s a sign to me that 1) I’m more stressed than I believe and that 2) my brain has come to the rescue the best way it knows how.

I base my characters off my observations, my experiences, but most of all these separate personalities. I consider them separate regardless of the “idea” that having “personalities” means you’re “crazy”.

I reject that hypothesis like I reject that picture above. I think it means I’ve been through a lot, I think it means my brain actually gives a damn and is trying to sort things out because I’ve failed majorly at doing so. I think it means it’s giving me a break so I can study and make it through work tonight and tomorrow morning. I think it means I actually got good sleep last night. I think it means, much to my dismay, that I am indeed human. I think that’s what having different personalities means.

This current me can be very prudent and conceited at times. It makes me laugh. I come across as arrogant but absent; at this point I’d walk into a store, avoid eye contact with everyone, grab my things, go up to the counter without responding to their “hi, how are you?” comment, and get the fuck out. Anxiety wouldn’t play as large of a factor. That’s why I consider this personality “the break”.


It’s also the personality where I’d fuck with you. Oh I’d fuck with you so majorly, just for some amusement. That’s kind of how I wrote that psychiatric note I think. It’s how I wrote the note to the guest speaker when I had detention in high school for skipping class. It was all a joke: being put into groups to discuss our “feelings” because we were all troubled kids heading down the highway to hell. At the end we were required to write a reflection about the whole process and the poor speaker wrote me back a frantic note worried I was a mental case about to slash my wrists vertically, spray a gun through the school, or murder a teacher. I never said any of those things blatantly (for obvious reasons) but the darkness and thoughts I described were indicative of a disturbed mind, disturbed enough to scare the shit out of him and the school.

Little did they know I was rolling on the floor crying from laughter while I wrote it and while I read the guy’s response. Poor guy.

If I find something to be stupid, this is the part of me that will put a sarcastic twist on every little ounce of your feelings. Who knows why I/we do that.

Writing, any creative outlet really, is a way for our brain to bring together all the different parts of our humankind selves so that they all have a say. It’s a form of checks and balances for our sanity. So when people ask me why I enjoy writing, I simply smile; that’s a question that would take eons to fully explain.

“So what I’ve come to realize is, I will NEVER fit in, so it’s my duty to make sure, that I stand. The fuck. Out.” -Tech N9ne 2016 baby. 

What’s Your Story?


That’s essentially my take on life at this point.

As I write this, I sit with a scratchy throat of which I will throw miniature tantrums over until it is gone.

Thank you all for the 400 followers, that’s more than I could have hoped for in the beginning of this blog. For the new comers, welcome, you don’t know what you signed up for but thanks for signing up.

Anyway, this semester I’m taking a creative writing course. We cover fiction, drama, and poetry  and it’s been an interesting experience thus far.

I know the blog-sphere is full of published writers, non-published writers, want-to-be published writers, want-to-not-be-published writers, writers who are a million times better than I could hope to be, and beginners. So periodically I’d like to share some of the different outlines we use to spark creativity, and I’ll probably share excerpts of my own until people get annoyed with my shitty . . . shit.

My vocabulary is astounding.


This week, the first week of classes, she had us describe our life in six words. Then, as a twist after we came up with the stupidest things we could have thought of, she decided to let us go home with an assignment of “develop a 250 word ‘Story of your life’, all centered around the six sloppily thrown together words you came up with”.

Everyone else came up with things like “Born and raised in California, Baby” or used words to describe their life like “shy girl, no friends, something, something” (I can’t remember what everyone fucking said).

Me? No, my brain is a magnet for the abstract, so my phrase was “Fire, water, and some more fire”.


Here is the 250 rough draft I slapped together over these last few minutes:

In the beginning, there was fire.

Fire foretold more fire, but in a foreign language and therefore was incomprehensible. I came into the world with little fight and a naïve sense of security that the fire would soon target, lock, and destroy.  The flame first licked my skin in infancy when my cries of confusion were met only with a discontented “girl, you better shut up!”. The flame encased the house at the discovery of alcohol and narcotics, and scorched my skin with the disadvantages of poverty and eviction. Although the number one antagonist, the flame and I danced our way through life side by side, lost without each other and lonely without the misery of one another.All that flew from my mouth was fire, all that perspired from my pores was lava, and all that my emotions could emulate was the reaction of cesium in water.

Education enticed the flame larger. Written word was my only true form of communication, spoken word a mystery but required nonetheless. Barked phrases of “speak up!” Or “you’re too quiet” haunted my nightmares and I, verbally inept, silenced myself to avoid the struggle of fighting for words in my own mind.

Water doused the edge of the flames at 18 when I saw through the smoke screen that the fire and I were never friends,but parasitic leeches upon one another. Water brought the gentle and fierce understanding fire would always exist, but that the heat could always be lessened.


First of all, excuse any mistakes, this is a rough draft. A very rough draft.

That is also a very accurate description of my life, however abstract. I wanted to have people read it first before I give my theory on where all of that came from.

From it I gather I’ve described the “fire” part of my life, the unpredictable yet somehow almost predestined drama and anger and pain and stupidity that accompanied me from infancy, the part which I regarded as my best friend, my loyal friend, as a parasite.

I didn’t learn how parasitic until the water came. I represent maturity and growth and selfflowing_over_dam3 realization with water because water knows when it needs to rage downstream or across mountain ridges. It knows when it needs to make itself known. It knows when to remain calm and still and let life carry on around it. It allows us to drink from it and suffer the consequences when we get too greedy. There’s an ancient wisdom about water, I think. It doesn’t flow against any force, not unless that’s what life requires, but it does flow with force, just enough to get it from point A to B.

ca-wild-fire-2-9-15A fire scorches everything it touches, whether the intention to do so is there or not. A small fire is still a fire; the only difference between a small one and a large one is that a large one covers more ground. There’s always an element of loss of control around a fire. It’s not about whether a fire will soak into the carpet or just dry on the wall and evaporate: it will spread wherever it pleases, swallowing everything in its path and leaves only charred remnants behind. That, I attribute, to my volatile attitude of my child-self, of the attitudes around me, of the unfortunate events that always seemed to surround me, and, at one confused point in time, to my mental health status.

I didn’t learn any of those metaphors until I finished writing. That’s the amazing thing about writing: one minute you have nothing and the next minute you have something.

I think this exercise is good for someone struggling to really put the pieces of their life together. I’m really anal about following instructions (you can count if you want, that excerpt is exactly 250 words), but it’s not necessary. I’m personally someone who needs to work on condensing my ideas.

At any rate, like I said, it’s good for anyone who would like to learn more about themselves, or bring together past events that were otherwise difficult to think about. Representing them abstractly seems to have helped me process some things, to show me that what I experienced is also something nature experiences, something we all experience, even animals. For whatever reason, that brings a bit of peace to my mind.

A Personal Glimpse

Often I don’t post personal writings on here. However, tonight I decided could be an exception because I’ve come across two poems (I had previous lost) that I scribbled down maddeningly one over two separate depressive episodes about a year ago. I cannot say that they are not amateur. I cannot say that I’ve tuned my non-existent poetry skills as often as I have my fiction skills. I also cannot guarantee that they make any sense at all. Bare with me here. All I can say is that they are written in a form that kind of seems like poetry, so I tentatively consider them so.



I feel I’ve been fighting a million years

Under the ruse of a pacifist.


Suffering is tolerated for the sake of living;

Living is tolerated for the sake of others

In the world in which I live.

Any truths behind the smile,

The reflex,

The Façade,

Is shrouded.

Only a downy pillow brings cotton comfort

Until the light brings forth another day.


I feel I’ve been fighting a million years

Under the ruse of a pacifist.






There is no between

Under the influence of two extremes.

What’s real is the present,

What was, only falsity;

The future: a gross inaccuracy.

What words go where,

What feelings should be felt,

What thoughts embraced

When their meanings change with the tide?



I feel I’ve been fighting a million years

Under the ruse of a pacifist.


He descends,

My most worthy opponent,

Arms extended,

And I cower

As any rational being would.

Light cannot pass through the absence of itself;

I cannot soothe the shell of myself.

Relinquish control, I do;

Resume authority, he does;

And we dance the devil’s dance with experienced precision.

We are one and I am none;

He is I

And I am a memory.


I know I’ve been fighting a million years

Under the ruse of a pacifist

Because my smile manipulates the world’s beliefs.

She’s laughing: she’s fine;

She’s joking: she’s fine.

I will joke no longer,

Laugh no longer,

Because he hates the sound of joy

And I hate the burden of deceit.


Reality cannot be grasped

By the slippery hands

Of a ghost.


I’ve fought for a million years

With the shadows in my head;

They have no use for a pacifist.

Neither do I.


Who watches me while I drive down the street

Or walk on campus,

Or lay down to sleep?

Troubled spirits perhaps

Who carry the same burden as I:



Waiting to die;

Whatever that means.


Twirling through limbo is an awful chore

With no one to love and nothing to adore.

In reality,

Nothing exists

There is no difference between life and death

When the space in your head knows only dread, dread, dread.

Constant hounding,

Constant crying,

Constant lying,

Constant pounding,

But in an abyss with no one,

Nothing for miles.

A lonely life.


Day after day, night after night: failure, failure, failure.

One step forward

Five steps back.

So I wonder in this bed:

Will I remember the beauty of life with a gun to my head?


Aren’t I just a Positive Patty?


Dear Reader,

Let’s take a walk shall we?

Oh don’t worry your, um, . . . exceptionally average little face, I won’t take you into the woods and leave your brain splattered on any trees. Hm? The gun? Oh, I keep it on me at all times.

Why do I need a shot gun you ask? For . . . reasons.

Walk with me.

You see reader, through my eyes the world is a little bit different. Colors are too bright and burn a hole in my retina. People’s stares ravage my self esteem and their voices snatch my attention: what did they say about me? Like that guy, that guy that just walked past, what did he say about me? Why was he staring? Does he know something? hm? He wasn’t talking about me, you say? Than who was he talking about? His niece, you say? Hmm.

Reader, shh, do you see the car up there? Yes, the one parked by the curb. People are in it waiting for us to walk past, they could snatch us or spray us with sleeping gas or, even worse, stare at us: we should cross the street.

The world I see is full of people with a hidden motive, with a malicious intent, and I was sent here from wherever I belong to debunk those motives, dodge those intents, and creative a life worth living. Demons (my best friends) sit on my shoulder to whisper random thoughts into my ear and mood swings twist my head until I’m dizzy enough to fall off a cliff with a purpose to gain a steady vision of things in the afterlife . . . this couldn’t possibly follow me there, could it?

The cars-except the Tesla Models-burn rubber against my ear drum. All the noise, it rips through my nerves and squeezes the life from my heart until the muscle itself, not to mention my confidence and dignity (those have been smothered for years anyway, I’m sure they’ve suffocated by now) is withered and torn. It makes me feel, well . . . unsafe.

Hm? My gun makes you feel unsafe? Oh my dear, dear reader, you’re so silly. Keep up, will you?

Don’t be offended by both earphones in my ear, it’s not that I don’t want to listen to  your silly little inquires, it’s that I can’t handle this noise any longer. Music is the ultimate soother of all shattered souls, did you know?

The world is a frightening place.

Let’s watch the ducks for a moment, they’re not frightening. In fact, they’re rather cute. I don’t say cute very often, not in front of strangers, at least.

I would like to jump over this fence and get a picture of them in the water. Why don’t I, you ask? Is that what you said?  I can’t hear you. I’ll assume you did.

Listen to all the cars pass on the street beside us. What if they think I’m jumping into the bushes to do drugs? What if they call the police and I’m jailed or shot all over my aching need for duck pictures? Do you know how embarrassing it will be telling people in Hell how I died?

I don’t want people staring at me, reader. We’ll wait for a break in the cars.

. . .

. .



You didn’t do it fast enough, they saw you, that car right there. You don’t care? Well, it must be nice to live a care-free life like that, huh?

Just remember, someone is always watching you. You may not see them, you may not even feel them as I do, but their eyes are upon you. I feel them over my shoulder sometimes. Sometimes they’re sitting next to me, sometimes they’re simply all around. Hm? What? Speak up!

Oh, how do I know, you ask? I just know. I can feel them. It’s why I can’t sleep, it’s why I hesitate telling you these things because I know they are watching and listening. Who is listening, you wonder? Well . . . even I don’t have an answer for that dear reader. I only know they exist in one form or another, whether that be physical, spiritual, angelic, demonic, a royal stream of consciousness perhaps  . . . when you’re as connected as I am, you will understand.

It’s all in my head, you say? Perhaps so.

The ducks are gone. Your considerably late leap must have frightened them off. If the world is as twisted and frightening for them as it is for me, I understand why they took flight.

Reverse (1 of 1)

Do you like my photo, reader? Yes?

Just know it would have been ten times better with a duck if you wouldn’t have fucked it up. Let’s continue this walk, shall we?

My brain plays tricks on me often reader, does yours ever play tricks on you? No?

You’re a liar. You can’t leap for shit and you’re a liar, are you proud of yourself?

I apologize. Let’s take a stroll through the trees, perhaps they will calm me. I need to get away from all these people, it’s a madhouse out here. Yes, I’m talking about the two people we passed walking here, that’s a madhouse. Did you see their stares? They were either trying to scratch my soul or get inside of my head and were they to reach either it would mean ten thousand years of darkness. Now you know why I walk with my eyes down.

That and I don’t like being stared at.

This is the quiet I’ve been looking for:

the beaten path (1 of 1)

path (1 of 1).jpg

vines (1 of 1)

upwards (1 of 1).jpg

up close and personal (1 of 1)

I think I can take an earphone out. There are times when the silence of nature is the best medicine. And by silence, of course, I mean the breeze through the treetops above, the steady hum of the vocalist in my left ear, your whiny ass comments, and the voices in my head.

Do I hear voices? Why does everyone ask me that? I need to stop talking to myself in public. My answer is: not in the way you’re thinking.

We all have voices in our head, my friend. Some are our conscience, some are our friends, our enemies, some are internal, some are external, but we should be able to agree they are all, to a great extent, an extension of ourselves, of our emotions, of our repression, of our society, and of our humanity.

Do you ever wonder about what you can’t always see, dear reader?

What do I mean? Why, you don’t think this reality is reality, do you? Haha!


Oh, you’re serious.

People are too caught up in narrowing themselves into a standard, and consequentially narrow reality into the standard with them. And if you don’t fit that standard, well, prepare to live a life riddled with doctors and diagnoses, instability, doubt, confusion, anger, shame, self-loathing, disbelief, and loss of hope.

No one took the time to understand my beliefs, they instead forced their beliefs of my beliefs upon me. Silly humans.

What kind of beliefs, you ask? What another silly question. Why would I tell anyone any longer? What did that get me before besides laughs and overbearing psychiatric “concern”?

Let’s take the focus off of me. Let’s put the focus back on life.


I think we’re out of the woods. There’s a wall of cloud over the ocean up ahead, can you see it? That’s alright, it comes and goes. Some how we always make it out in the end.

See. I told you I wouldn’t shoot you.