Easier or so it seems

It’s all a little easier than it looks.

Clearing my head

Making for alive



Dead. . .

Maybe harder than it seems

To go towards those dreams

making for a flight



sight. . .

Or so it beams


all things are always all things. Seeming or being.

Orange ya glad there’s coffee?


Oranges and coffee

Oranges and coffee

Oranges and coffee

Keeping me form my morning study.

These colors just bring too much to mind.

Like a crisp sunrise.

Like thick lapses of time you sip caressingly…


I stare instead of work.

Write instead of read.

And I give thanks to the  universe for such lavish things as

Oranges and coffee.

Sunrise writing


A lot of red marks on this mornings free writing.

It is evening now, but I did rise this morning and write again.

I ache for time alone to write for days on end.

Never stoping as if I have found a new lover and that tightness comes back to my cheeks. The roundness to my lips.

The same happens when a new love is near and I am hunting again…

I have not hunted in a while .

I am lonely in that realization.

But only because I am addicted to new.

I am addicted to a lot of things. Like sex, weed, alcohol, arguing. Having a partner that comes into the room and I cannot write anymore.

I am sick of this life, sick of the noise, sick of the sick.

Now what?

Full of Stories

Now what? Now what? Now what? That seems to be all I can say to myself right now as I continue to commit to myself that I am a writer. . . Okay. . . So now what?

Well, I don’t know. I want to commit to loging in and writing something, anything down every day. I commit to not judge myself as I go through this process.

I want to sift through the stories that are me and for the first time ever put them out in plain view. Even if no one ever sees it, I have to get these truths of me out of my head. They eat away at me like a cancer until I am barely recocnizable to myself. Not acknowledging them and running from them prove just as deadly to my happiness and true sense of self.

So, I commit. I commit to take on writing ALONG with the other endeavors I am involved in. See thats another trick I like to use. I was raised by victims, get to that another time, but in being raised by them you learn quickly how to pick up what will block you. Stop that dream dead in its tracks. And when it comes to writing, I have quite a few.

The big ones are:

*I will have to be straight to be taken seriously.

*I will have to be strictly secluded and a drunk or crazy.

*I will have to quit my other creative dreams and soly focus on writing if I want to be good, You know that whole one or the other thing.

*I will not be able to fully give myself emotionally to my child or a love because I will be consumed with creating(I use this one with my other creative outlets as well)

And at times I want to be,consumed by my art that is. But I am learning that I am actually a well rounded person and my whole life I have been seeking out balance. I yearn for it actually and I am learning to embrace this part of me and let the “Rocking Rebellion” misconception leave me. It does me no good. My aspirations are so much thicker than that. More rounded and include a lot of laughter damn it!

So , whats next?. . . Laughter and writing of course. ­čÖé

New Writer, Old Writer

What to write about to night?

I am sitting in my living room. Our ‘new to us’ Christmas tree is up lights and all.

I am new to writng. Well not new to writing but new to putting it out there to anyone. I actually have no idea what I am doing or if anyone will or would ever want to read what I have to say.

I typically stop myself from writing with self bludgeons of what a shitty speller I am or how I will most likely make no sense and a reader would leave scratching their head in confusion. Due to all my gramatical errors of course.

Yet I am delving in anyways. Why? Because I am a writer. . . Yes I said it. In black and white, typed on the page, er…screen.

I am a writer and I am tired of only closet writing in journals that pile up. Ceiling high, full of me, but with no one to read. Oh yeah, and I love to ryhme. That is the musician in me. Yes I am a musician as well so I am used to words in melodic ways but I need more length. The length that comes with writing looooonnnngggg sentences that can run on and on and on and on to get to the meat of anything I am wanting to say.

I look forward to this knew endevore in my life. I look forward to putting my chaos and balance out for any who would like to see. Perhaps relate to.

Next. . . Dancing. . . I love to dance and gravely need to! 

Moma hands


My hands look like my mothers. I wonder if she felt so disconnected from her hands as I do my own. Yet at other times I feel more connected than any other human on earth…then it stops raining.

Be nice

“You don’t need to be fixed. You need to be nice.” That is what I tell my ex-husband as he sits on the phone leting me know of the anger ┬áhe is unleashing on others due to financial fear. He is hurting financially and is watching himself painfully take it out on her. ┬áHave I mentioned this is the same man that abused me years before?

And I sit here on the phone with him wondering who in the world is this person?

Why am I listening to him tell me the same yuck I once lived in?

He truly does have a heart of gold and I have always seen this. Everyone can see this. His heart is not the problem. It is his temper which is in his brain.

He suffers from depressive and manic episodes like many other artists. But that is just it, he doesnt claim himself an artis and he is still trying to make it in that other world. The one that messures you up to all the ‘things’ you have given up your time for.

So he is blocked and sitting in the stew of this bubbling anger lashing out at all who try to help him or ask him what is wrong. Because he hates that he doesn’t have ‘it’ (money) figured out. How can he be good enough to himself to love anyone else, if he has no money and is having a hard time paying the rent? We had a hard time paying the rent when I was with him as well and I saw the dark anger that fear brings out in him.

He tells me how they all want to fix him. And I feel his pain, the man who never felt mine. The man who’s fist was quick as his fear. I sit and I feel his pain and all I can think to say is. . . “You don’t need to be fixed. You need to be nice.”