Brain Dead at Thirty Three.

i keep telling myself ‘’I’m 33’’

as if reminding myself of something I’ve know for the last six months will somehow re-shape the part of me that has was born brain-dead:

My heart.

I’m 33. Yesterday.

I allowed my phone to be turned off.  Not really so much “allowed” as I was financially jumped.  So my phone is off until months end.  It really doesn’t matter.  I can still dial 911 if necessary.  Plus, fuck being accessible to everyone…...not that anyone calls.  Shit if I could black out online without feeling like “I should post this thought” or like I’m missing something, then it could be a perfect lie!  But….i digress.  My phone is off and I ordered a fruit bowl yesterday that I needed to go pick up.  Long story short, I went to my father’s house around the corner to use the phone and let the lady know that I was on my way.  Of course since we were in the same room, would he hear my end of the call.  After finding out the location of the apartment and repeating a few directions out loud, I hung up; to which my grand ole father had a comment in que and ready.  I confirmed for him that I was going to the east side.  When I named the Apts, it must’ve instantly jogged his memory.  I assume he’s been over there before…..i guess.  I really don’t know.  Don’t even care.  But as I was standing there thinking of the fastest route from his house to the east-side, he says “those apartments is where your sister lives.” 

0_o

I left immediately. This was only my second time, maybe 3rd, in my 33 years, hearing about this "sister' chick, who apparently was born before i was....

I got in my car, with my face still in its frozen bewilderment, and drove mumbling to myself,

I’m 33. 

Im 33.  The Day Before Yesterday.

I started to feel bad for not calling either of the men I deem full fledged or at least semi-failures of a father figure to wish them a lie.  Happy Fathers Day is almost like shit coming out of my mouth.  Its unbelievable and nasty.  So I don’t say it.  My dad called me.  I think that made me ultimately feel bad.  He shouldn’t have to call me.  Plus, despite the fact that he completely dropped the ball at being a father, I do love him, hands down.  As is.  My stepfather on the other hand, is a different story.  But I still wanted to cook for him too.  So I slaved.  I bought food, got off work and cooked until I almost passed out and my feet were too tired to stay in my sweaty gym shoes. Mind you, I’m cooking and cleaning as I go, in addition to trying to keep tracks on the doggies. Might sound like a small feat, but in my world, nothing is small and everything is hard.  Would be great if my life were a dick but….i digress.  Shortly after 9, I had made plates and dropped one off to my father.  I used his phone and called my mom to request she come outside.  I didn’t want to ring the doorbell and chance my stepfather opening the door.  I may have cooked for him, but the intensity of my emotions towards him have suddenly catapulted beyond my reach and just for saving face purposes, I just would have rather talked to my mom.  I fixed her a plate too.  I delivered them to her house, next door to mine, and was of course prompted by her to come in and get something ELSE to eat.  Ok.  I didn’t see his truck.  I went in. Immediately, standing at the end of the long hallway, was the man known as my stepfather.  I could never see myself skipping the “step.”  He stared or better yet glared at me until I waved and said hello and he returned my gesture with some mumbo jumbo that only he and God could decipher.  I go to the refrigerator and stand behind the door (my mom had it open) and reach for a plastic plate on the top.  While I’m doing this, little did I know, he was quickly and quietly shuffling to the same exact place.  Thank God for ice makers and water machines.  0_o. 
 In a split second, I hear my mom ask him if he’s hungry and then told him“Kendria brought us some dinner.”  I stayed behind the refrigerator door, which was still open.  I didn’t want eye to eye contact.  I just wanted him to get his plate and go away.  But I truly believe my heart was in the right place when i decided AND went thru with cooking this meal for him and my dad..  A good place.  An “I’m better than this” place.  His response: 
______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

…..

well that was just awkward.

He said NOTHING.  I don’t know if he shook his head or made some kind of eye blink telekinesis or what, but his VOICE, as I stood RIGHT THERE, said NOTHING.  He just got his water, and walked off....i fought those fucking tears so hard!!! I REFUSED to cry in that damn house... 

By the time I finally made it back next door, it was all I could say to myself:

I’m 33.

I’m 33.  Today.

Someone somewhere probably believes that a woman should have confronted, dealt with and forgiven whomever for any of her issues, particularly father issues, by the time she is in her 30’s.  Today, I view myself as a woman who will forever be scarred, marred, tarred and feathered by my emotional displeasure towards having two dads since I was at least 3 years old, but having zero fathers.  I never did get emotional love or affection from them.  My father does kiss me every time he sees me and tells me he loves me, but lets be serious.

I’m 33.  It matters….but it doesn’t matter now like it did back when I was kid...i mean, the mold is complete. 

I’m scared of spending my life with no one because of my issues.  Finding a good counselor is hard and expensive.  Finding friends that can relate might be easier said than done, but then who wants to talk to a stranger (or anyone less than a friend)  that hasn’t been sworn to protect the privacy of their clients??? Not me.  I’m private. I may seem open and honest about my life, and where poetry is concerned, I am….but in my general day to day life, I am private, shy and nervous.  My trust has been broken with secrets I expected to be kept and weren’t too many times, so now, I barely open up to the ones closest to me.  But I tell you….there is nothing in the world that can compare or rival the feeling you have when you feel unloved by a man, since the beginning of your time.  This has nothing to do with relationships, love/ marriage, etc….that shit is fluff.  This is about not feeling ANY form of emotional connection, love or affection by either of the men who have been a constant in my life since I got here.  My stepdad’s been married to my mom over 20 years.  The last time I believed he loved me was around …..single digits. I have long felt worthless to both of these men, who i now am entering my 4th(?) year of living right under....

This blog isn’t about making mention of everything that has hurt me between these two men.    But my dad threw me off with that “sister” comment.  It hurt me even.  And to be honest, I either don’t know or will have to put it in a separate blog on how that made me really feel. 

My stepdad…..they say the eyes are the windows to your soul.  If true, then even his soul is nauseated by me.  It makes me and has made me question myself.  Who am I or What am I, that the two men that should’ve loved me like no one else in this world, make me feel hated. Mistakenly arrived.  How dare my real dad talk about some “sister”. …..i just wanted to say so bad, dude I don’t know what kind of parking lot pimping thoughts you are over coming up with, but I don’t have a sister.

Or a brother.  Never have.

YOU apparently have children all over America.  To feel unimportant to family, with special regards for your father, is more than just a blow to the head.  That is more like a bullet to the brain but you never lose consciousness yet feel all the pain. 

But im 33.

This should not be bother me. 

This should not be affecting me.

My stepfather hasn’t told me happy birthday since ……shit I don’t know….early 20’s….and that’s a maybe…its definitely contingent on whether or not I saw him…..if I didn’t, then there was nothing…..now he was a great provider…I always make sure to toss that in…im conditioned that way…..thanx for the roof over my head, the shoes on my feet and a mom who got to be a stay at home parent….only thing, she never really did master being a father….she probably thought …well….she didn’t have to…you were there.

 We call this “Bupkiss’’

i can’t feel anymore like permanent damaged goods.

I find myself diving head first into poetry because it’s the one place where love has never been challenged from them to me.  People appear to love me and when I find out they don’t or never did, I guess that’s why I take it so hard for so long….how dare a fraud get past me….how dare you treat me like you are one of my dads……

How dare a man

Come into a womans life

And treat the woman to be

As if her creation was the biggest farce since Columbus discovered America. 

How dare my dad tell me about my “sister” as if that term is just a loose goose.  There is meaning behind that and it doesn’t stop or start with Blood.  Sorry but I really feel like fuck her, fuck Kenny (my brother) and fuck anyone that doesn’t like it. 

I love my dad.

He told me my food was delicious on this same day he acknowledged his “other daughter”.....

My stepfather…..idk if he ate it or not….just like I don’t know if he ever read the poem I sent him a few fathers days ago....Just like I will never know if he EVER loved me.  ....i do know if i or my company walk past him outside and don't make it a point to acknowledge his existence, i will hear about it until the end...i'm still paying for the accidental sins of my friends....

But I’m 33.

Im not healed.

Im not a superwoman.

Im not ok with this.  I live next door to my stepfather….so seeing him give me the fuck you look is subject to happen ANY moment. 

But i'm 33

and im just shy of being brain dead....fish food....vulture pleasures....my heart is like puddy being shaped and molded to the figure whosoever decides to turn it into whatever they turn it into ....a disco inferno perhaps? 
..not enough weed in the world can change or make me forget that sometimes, better yet, All Times, i feel like a fatherless child.....even at the ripened age of 33....and it pisses me off....how come the fuck im not healed!!!!!!!!

But im 33.

And im not ok …yet!

Lord knows I want to be.  I want to move on from these unresolved emotions that have been bottled up inside of me since before I was a teen.  how dare i expect another man out here in this world to love me when the ones gifted with the chance to shape me weren't the slightest bit of interested.

But im 33.

And now I have realized…..due in part to my location…..

That the one thing I always needed…always searched for....
 even  fought a losing battle for….the one thing that could have changed at least a little something about me…..is the one thing I may never experience....

A father.

And even at 33, that shit feels like alcohol to a 3^rd degree.

jY

Positive Reinforcement, Legends and the Streets.

 

last night I had the extreme pleasure of being invited to attend The Asante Children’s Theater’s showing of the critically acclaimed I Am Legend Michael Jackson tribute show.  By the time intermission had come, I had all but decided to review this show in hopes that the audience I touch, who may have not experienced it this go around, will be in line to witness it the next time they bring it back.  Today closed out a two week encore run of the show at the Madame C.J. Walker building.  I had an invite to witness it again today but unfortunately wasn’t able to make it.  Had I been free, I’d have watched the entire showing all over again as if it were the first time.

Within the first five minutes of the show, all I could think about was how many children, regardless of race but especially African American ones, do not get to experience the joys of childhood and life.  So many parents do nothing to get their children actively involved in the arts and/or the community.  Programs like ACT exist because of a desire to help/teach/inspire coupled with parents who refuse to settle for the streets raising their babies.  How does this fit in with reviewing the show?  Maybe it doesn’t.  But I would be remised if I didn’t mention that this is what came to mind as I saw these talented young black future men and women, who were being allotted the opportunity to express themselves via song and dance in front of a cheering audience of people.  You could see the hope in their eyes.  You could tell they knew the power of their voices, even if only the beginning stages.  They each sang with conviction.  Belief.  One young man was so believable of MJ.  The stars in his eyes and the conviction of his voice when he sang let us all see artistry at a young age. 

“All I wanna say is they don’t really care about us!”

One of Michael’s most underrated songs.   Everyone who knows me, knows I love dance.  Dance is in my blood.  I once wanted to be a choreographer but I was one of those kids who needed my dreams reinforced by someone.  I needed to be told that dream was possible and beautiful.  That there was a market for what I hoped I could be and they’d see to it that not only did I get the practice, that I would stick it out when it was tough.  I was one of those children.  And lacking that turned me in other directions.  Again I think of all the children with no positive reinforcement.  How beautiful was to see these kids re-enact the sequence from this video along with some additional choreography.  It felt so powerful.  It really felt …..Powerful.  Surely these kids know their power. 

Someone has told them.  Someone took the initiative, the first step, and enrolled them in something other than reality TV and fast food sandwiches.  To get to a point of “showing” a show, much practice has taken place.  As a creator of various shows, I know how much practice I do (and don’t ) put into stuff and the results of it.  Therefore, I can say without doubt that these kids were probably pushed to their limits and beyond.  They were prompted to rehearse when the new episode of their favorite show was on.  They probably fell down a couple times and struggled with a couple of steps.  They may have even cried, or wanted to quit.  But they were pushed.  I have never met Deborah Asante but I have heard great things about her and know several of her alumni.  Another safe bet is that she pushes these kids. 

And it shows in the performance.  Thriller was so well crafted and executed that I think the entire audience either was or SHOULD HAVE BEEN on their feet.  I know I was.  They were great.  The show includes a live band, live song, great dance choreography, a few skits and ……..

…..spoken word.  Poets Allyson Horton, who I came on the scene admiring and Camea Osborn, my poetry-niece did a SUPREME job representing our genre of artistic expression, as well as giving us a different perspective of Michael Jackson.  By the time Camea was finished with her piece, The Glove, I could no longer contain the tears.  It was as if I FINALLY began to mourn MJ.  In one first act, I came to terms with the fact that Michael not only created some of the best music, but he’s gone.  And he was tortured.  And he loved us.  People he’d never even meet.  He loved us.  Through these pieces, we were told his life thru a sequined glove and blue colors.  And the  tears continued well into the next scene.  Again I thought of those children who will never know life outside the prison they are born into.

Michael would have thought of those kids.  Michael would be proud of these kids! Every scene in this show was well thought out and perfectly placed.  Each singer had the right song choice.  In fact, one singer (possibly Jasmine Baily?) had quite possibly one of the most beautiful-est voices I have EVER heard in my life!!! Her range, her sound and the way she handled that song and her voice……it was amazing. Every dance step was loaded with a harmonious collaboration.  I was pleased.  A standing ovation was the least we could have done.  Each and every cast member should feel proud and celebrated.  Every set ended with loaded applause and cheer. 

And again I think about those kids who will never get to experience this.  They don’t stay kids forever you know.  They grow up no matter who does or doesn’t raise them.  Chicago just had 40 people shot and 7 killed in ONE week.  Some of the killed were as young as 17, maybe even younger.  People don’t just grow up numb to not being cared for as a child.  They don’t grow up with a lack of respect  for life for no reason.  Children need to be shown the lights of the world.  Darkness is all around us.  Violence, death, sadness and war surround us daily.  Children need to be shown how to be free.  How to find solace in peaceful environments and inspiring ways.  They need to know how to exist OUTSIDE the hood.  They need to be challenged positively and they need to have their desires and dreams nurtured.  I wish this for all children.  Will putting them in an arts program save their lives?  Maybe.  Maybe not.  But it will definitely show them they do have many options.   I wish they could all be in the lights just like the cast of I Am Legend.  No matter what the avenue, whether it was acting or dance or music or building or karate, etc, etc…..the list can go on and on.  The ACT did a beautiful job giving tribute to a range of songs from the MJ collection.  I hope this show and the energy this wonderful casts put out into our universe inspired everyone else in the room as it did me.  My only wish is that more children could experience these kinds of lights instead of police lights…..ambulance lights…..

lights out.

jY

See U At The Crossroads.

 

its been awhile since I blogged from a personal perspective.  And to tell the truth, I don’t know what I am about to be talking about. 

I just had a thought. …it’s a thought that has been pressing me for days, maybe even weeks, in different ways….this question has been reworked in my head over and over again, until just now, while scrolling thru one of my many TLs, it finally opened itself up to me….

“Can I succeed as a performing poet by staying to myself….OR….do I HAVE to open up to more and more worlds of befriending people? “ 

 

…which then begs the next question, if the answer is “no”, does that mean I should just settle into my job and give up on my desires to be a successful poetic artist.  And the hits just keep on coming.  How do I balance trust levels???  This blog in its totality, is littered with these kinds of posts.  Thru the years, this is the place I inevitably return to over and over again and I don’t know if its me going backwards or if this question just sits at the throne of each one of my stops along this journey.   I am not as confused as I am longing.  I’m not as impatient as I am curious.  I don’t know how to tell if I am wasting my time or not.  And I am about used up on the “Just keep going and you will see.”  Something I’ve learned about that concept is if you don’t really know what you are looking for, you are liable to see everything.  Which can be good and bad.  I’m in the bad part. 

I see reasons to stop and reasons to go.  Reasons to quit and reasons to keep pushing.  My creative mind has already found its home in the artistic world, so I can never see myself lacking creativity to do something or put together SOMETHING.  I wish I had’ve gone into Event Planning.  Lol.  Writing is a hard field to crack.  I’m not just a poet.  I’m a writer.  I am a lover of the usage of words; manipulating their meanings and playing with their natural rhythms.  I have created a newsletter, written hundreds of poems, worked on a book and kept tons and tons of journals.  Oh and we won’t even talk about all my blogs all over cyberspace.  I NEED to succeed in this.  I NEED to feel less of a waste and more of a purpose again.  I instead feel ignored. Forgotten.  Overlooked.  Its causing me not to care anymore.  About anything.

Poetry and/or writing do NOT put food on my table and I have never asked them to.  But I want to change that.  I want to write my life into stability and I want to perform my way into inspiring.  Colleges, schools, women, teenagers….I refuse to believe these people can’t receive this message that lives inside of me.  I have to believe that’s what all of this is for.  But who do I  trust???

who do I befriend???

who secretly hates me and how many people would rather see me down and out???

 

These are rhetorical questions.  I understand the more successful one is, the more one would have to deal with the atrocities of the world, but here’s what I need:

A  team. 

No one can do it alone.  NO ONE>  ESPecially not someone who is trying to succeed THEIR OWN WAY!!! I am attempting to use the doors that have been opened up for the likes of me, to carve my own alley to the success ladder.  I have not connected on an open mic level in a long time, as evidenced by some of the blog posts here over the years, but that is how I got my following.   So how do I balance the internal confusion.  How can I make them be as excited to hear what I have to say? By making my own way.  Creating my own shit, marketing it and praying to God that it works out.  Case in point, The Exquisite Pain show.  I am allowed to do the poems in my heart and not whats on the hot right now list!  BUT-

But-

But – ……..is this possible??? Can I keep doing this ???
well sure I can….

but I need a team.

I need a manager.  I need an assistant that will HELP me.  I need to be pushed by people sometimes.  Its one of my downfalls.. …and part of the reason I need a team.  I had a good solid team around the time of my cd release party….but in the months that have followed, everything has fallen apart.

Everything.

and my motivation feels like it was hijacked.

not my creativity.  ..im still creating shit, always…..matter a fact, the next series in The Exquisite Pain is called “Living is Suicide & Dying is Too Damn Easy” …..I have really good feelings about this one based off the title alone….

…..but I am not motivated to make it pop….

… I need a getaway still…..I had planned that the first of June would be me, on a plane, headed to Ft Lauderdale, FL….. I winded up spending my vacation money on a car and haven’t recovered since.  *sigh*

 

I just need some time to regroup some things.  Rework, replan, remaster the blueprint. 

 

but for right now, my stomach is growling. and the only team I have is a team of two dogs who often disrespect me but love me nonetheless……so I shall end this long blog, rather abruptly….to go eat some cocoa pebbles.

im in the mood for love.

X Marks the Spot -

So I’m sitting here right.  Thinking.  Remembering.  Pondering even, on this thought: The Bag Over Head, Face Down Ass Up Syndrome.  Its much deeper than it’s surface letters. 

Rule #1 when on the battle front:  Identify your enemies.

Politicians could truly give a shit about women.  Hell, half of them don’t even care about the women they are married to.  Look at how many marriages have publically crumbled during and shortly after campaigns have ended.  Women have to smile in front of camera’s, put on lipstick and pretend the heels they wear can make them rise above the situation.  Sir j.Edwards’ wife was battling breast cancer when he created life with someone….else, of which he only admitted to after his tangled web finally caught him up.   And don’t get me wrong; I know it takes two to tango.  But see, this isn’t about infidelity, it’s much deeper than that.  It is to say if one doesn’t respect the woman he sleeps with, has made family with and shared vows with [and who just so happens to be dying of breast cancer], why on Earth would it be inconceivable to believe that the laws he propose are solely based on his political gain amongst his constituents and adversaries.  FUCK THIS SHIT.

What kind of disrespectful night of Cuban cigars, Amsterdam girls and high end Scotch does it take to drum up the some of the ideas that they actually present to be passed as law?  In the world of politics, women have once again become the X that marks the spot.  We are targets with missiles being shot towards both our brains and our wombs.  We are treated like submissive whores who need to be told when we can prevent pregnancies and when we can choose to end them.  When we can PREVENT them and how we should raise them.  God forbid we are one of the millions of women who need the government’s assistance because our would be baby-daddy isn’t helping and our paychecks aren’t enough to buy us independence.  But hmmm….this brings about another point: had birth control been in my purse instead of on the floor of the House of dick & balls, then maybe it could have been prevented….question mark

Me: “excuse me boss….I do not need Orthro Tri Cyclen because of health reasons.  I don’t want to get pregnant sir.  Can it please be included in the insurance that is coming out of the paycheck of which I earn everyday?”

Boss: *gasping and choking on his high end tea* Kendria!!! Are you trying to tell me you are…..having sex?  You want me to pay you to have sex? Are you some kind of after hour prostitute or something?  I tell you what.  Stop having so much sex if you can’t afford decent contraception.  Here at P. Niss Hans & Associates, we are not pimps nor are we jons.  Please go.  Oh and there is no pregnancy leave for admins.”

Sound impossible????

Some the “boss’ “ comments were bits and pieces of the rant Rush Limbaugh went on, live, against a women who spoke up to the ridiculousness of insurance companies requiring proof of health reasons in order to pay for female contraception.  That is the most ridiculous shit I have ever heard, but you know what it REALLY is???

Humiliating. 

As it is to have a woman continously seek counseling in the event she wants an abortion.  Oh sure, FORCE her into an ultra sound.  So what if she’s been raped, make her stare at her rapist’s baby on the screen.  Call it human.   You said your dad raped you and you’re now pregnant?? No worries, you can abort the baby, but only after a series of hulimating and daunting tasks in attempt to pass time so quickly that you are forced into keeping the baby by default. 

Of which none of the government…..none of the politicians and none of the picketers will be there to help you deal with all your harsh realities.

No campaign trail will lead to your front door to put food on the table.  Public schools will be your only option and don’t you dare use another address to send your child to a good school.  They have a full cell for common robbers like that.  It won’t be long before they propose uterus exams in order to get food stamps. 

Life begins 2 weeks before conception. ….let Arizona tell it.

But life continues after birth for at least 18 years of responsibility.

But this isn’t about responsibility.  This isn’t about population or birth or babies or fetus’ for that matter.  This is about the dick and ball show feeling challenged because they finally see  JUST how powerful us women REALLY are.

“put that bag over your head bitch and populate earth!!”

They want us to be Apple Betty’s, at home with a frilly apron on, baking chocolate chip cooks for no fucking reason.  They want us to be vacuuming when they walk in the door smelling their concubines.  Yeah, remember, LOTS of these politicians cheat on their wives.  But we already sorta addressed that.  When Hillary Clinton had the balls; the guts and the belief in herself, as well as the political backing to even try to run for PRESIDENT of the United States….a DICK position…..that’s when every thing shifted. 

True we’ve been fighting women’s right for years.  But when Hillary did pushed her audacity across the showroom floor, that’s when the war officially got back on track.

And we are up to bat.  The battle front is littered with bullets.  Don’t leave home without your armor.  And please,

don’t let them snatch you and put a bag over your head.  This ain’t over.  Politicians aren’t even a half of our enemies. Stay tuned for part 3.  

Ghost in the Machine

Vibe with me really quick. I once read that Aquarian's are known for using music to express how they feel.....this couldn't be more of the truth if i painted it true colors.....and right now, on this day, in this moment of time in my life, THIS song......smdh....


there are many songs that can chronicle how i am feeling
but this song right now.....
there is not possibly another song that can lay me out, line for line for line....i mean each and every single damn one of these lines is line EXACTLY what im thinking....*sigh*...im in the thick of something nasty....it really hit home last friday at my dad's mom's funeral....every since then, its been a downward spiral to misery.....i have never felt more unwanted ...but whats worse, i dont know exactly WHO i am unwanted from....and its spilling out all over and around me....and this is my life. today.
i...feel like a ghost. and its painful.

Tell me where am I supposed to go?
And who am I supposed to believe.
If only you knew what I knew.
Then you could see just what I see.

So I grab my bags and go, as far away as I can go.
Cause everything ain't what I used to know.
And I try to hide, but I just can't hide no more.
There's nothing worse than feeling like a ghost.

You say I look fine, if only you knew what's on my mind.
You'd see a whole different sign, I couldn't show you even if I tried.
I must have got lost in time when I found out I was only free to be, where ever I want to be.

Some say I'm out of sight, how ironic and that we're all so blind.
If you could open up your eyes, you could see what I couldn't describe.
And then, you'd see the signs, and then your soul would be set free, and then you'd be released.

So I grab my bags and go, as far away as I can go.
Cause everything ain't what I used to know.
And I try to hide, but I just can't hide no more.
There's nothing worse than feeling like a ghost.

Tell me where am I supposed to go.
And who am I supposed to believe.
If only you knew what I knew.
Then you could see. (Hey)

So I grab my bags and go, as far away as I can go.
Cause everything ain't what I used to know.
And I try to hide, but I just can't hide no more.
There's nothing worse than feeling like a ghost.

And I'm terrified, like I've seen a UFO.
Cause everything ain't what I used to know.
And I try to hide, but I just can't hide no more.
There's nothing worse than feeling like a ghost.

(I go)
(A UFO)
(And I'm so tired of hiding, I've been running, I've been trying, to get away, to get away)

So I grab my bags and go, as far away as I can go.
Cause everything ain't what I used to know.
And I try to hide, but I just can't hide no more.
There's nothing worse than feeling like a ghost.

~b.o.b.

i wanna blog

but


for what.

Tears Burn After so many….

 

feels like no one cares about what I am doing….nothing I say about anything I have in the works or upcoming seems to be of much interest to many ppl.

*shrug*

 

im lonely today

im really on my human female shit today.

no not my period

just my emotional shit

sad music, tears, dark house and all.  GUess I’ll go get a black and at least try to smoke some of the monkey off my back.  Right now, I’m struggling.  THinking hard about ceasing my book….I couldn’t even successfully sell my cd ….how in the world can I sell a book?  But more than that, the spark that got it going….

seeing the person I wanted to marry….I actually tag him as the closest thing to perfection….and to know I wasn’t meant for that…made me feel a way and started something negative in me.  fuck fuck fuck. 

 

I will bounce back later on.