“I know my value.
Even with my mutilated nose and dead leg, somebody will want me. There are too many middle-aged brown men on social media. I know I’m one, “hey bby” away from my next marriage. I got this. I’m fertile.”
“I know my value.
“I want to say things my mind has not even formulated yet. I am bursting at the seams, with wordless thoughts and a gentle fire in my chest. It’s all because of Rowan.”
“I’m hurting myself, and I let you hurt me.
I’m sad, but I’m saddened because I wish you were right for me. I’m sad because I wish you were someone you’re not. I’m sad because I wish you’d treat me the way you can’t. I’m sad because you don’t know how to love me, but I want you to love me anyway. I’m sad because I know I can’t ever let you again. I’m sad because I’ve felt you. I’m sad because you’ve touched me. I’m sad because I’d take it all back.”
“I want to write to kill.”
These words are sounding in my mind, being fueled by the insatiable anger and anxiety I continually wake drenched in.
I am hateful, suicidal, murderous, aggressive, violent, reckless, hopeless, lost.
I am being dragged by my emotions again.
This I know.
“Love and Loss are holding hands, gazing into each other’s eyes and laughing heartily at the wrath in their wake.”
“With broken breath, in misty meadows,
I seek refuge, hidden beneath shadows.
In, the unwelcome sense of familiarity crept.
My face in thorns, alone I wept.
Along these paths I would often trek,
Wringing my hands unwillingly from my neck..”
“What inside your mind fuels such rage? Why do you want to break bones? What about physically and poisonously expressing your seething rage by means of intimidating and scarring those littler than you makes you feel better? Is it about power? Does it make you feel stronger, or like more of a man? Do you enjoy the stinging of the slapping, punching and the kicking?”
“A person cannot be broken. The mind has no parts, no structure, no known manifestation. If you’re broken, what is? Your body? That can heal; even bones can be mended. Your mind? Your personality? Your soul? Show me how it’s broken?”
“With shaky hands, Thor beckoned his best friend, Bhor.
“Our race dies, good man. I must mate with this hairy, humanoid woman yonder the lake. Generations from this moment, the blood of our forefathers will run strongly still between all corners of Earth.”
Off he went to bring the thunder.
Honey Boo Boo and the Biebs.”
“You, you little attention-seeking brat.
Sorry. That was condescending. Let me rephrase that.
YOU, YOU ATTENTION-SEEKING BRAT.
Nobody likes being called little.
Except rappers. Lil’ Jon, Lil’ Wayne, Lil’ Grown Man.
These people live life and the world is watching, yet they refuse to pick better names.”
Every person has a story – a series of events within a variety of circumstances, coupled with an array of associations, that all correlate to make you who you are. […]
If you asked why my paintings litter the floor instead of gracing my wall, I’d tell you, simply, that this is not my home. I have never had a home. […]