The Musings of My Mind

Month: February, 2014


I’d like to submerge myself
In a pool of drugs.
Get doped up and shove my
Problems under a rug,
Under a shield of protection
That can never be compromised,
Under a veil that could
Never show the darkness that lies in my eyes…
Each night, before I lay,
I cry and I cry
Of my mournful days..
I wish for an existence
That didn’t make me have to obey
The rules of ingrate people..
A weak union made of lies that
Cowers behind the promise of
Being equal..
I’d like to just be me,
But it doesn’t seem to be enough.
I’d like to just be free..
To fly like a bird, and swim in the open sea.
But reality just won’t let me be..
It clings on shamelessly,
&invades my dreams..
The only place I’ve been left with to hide
Is inside of this magical&whimsical ride…
There are swirls of different colors,
With..neon lights&enhanced sounds
That just make my ears feel smothered,
&all the while, reality hovers
Trying desperately to reel me back in with the others..
But…it’s simply too late,
My veins have turned black..
My heart beats fast&my eyes roll back.
My perception of reality is under attack.
&For once in my life, I choose not to fight.
I’d prefer to remain useless&out of sight..
Because the fire inside of me that burns so bright
Will lead me to do things
That just aren’t right..
So instead of trying to save the world,
Of even myself..
I think I’ll settle to be the girl
Who hides under a rug,
Shielded by the thick coating of this mind-reeling drug.



I feel like I need to scream. Like I need to punch someone in the face in slow motion so I can see and feel every bit of it. There aren’t enough hours in the day. There isn’t enough money in my bank account. This week feels like a gunshot to my head, and yet, here I am not trying as hard as I should. Some of my priorities are not what they should be, and honestly, I’d like to blame everything but myself. I feel bitter and defeated. I feel like if I don’t get out of here, I’ll never make it out alive. If I don’t make a new road for myself, I’ll spend the rest of my life camping out on the road of failure and inadequacy. I just feel so useless. I can’t wait until this week is over. It’s funny because in my head, I told myself that once this week is over, I’ll be in the clear and free to breathe, but I already know I won’t be. Something else will come up. Life will trump me again. I love that I can always find a silver lining in any situation, but I think I see the light of my hopefulness beginning to dim. I think I’m starting to become the person I never wanted to be. And even as I typed that, I thought to myself how spring break is right around the corner and I’ll have a break. I’ll have a moment to breathe. Somewhere inside of me, no matter what happens, a light shines inside of me, and it’s bright. All the while, it patiently awaits the day that it is seen. Why won’t life let me be great?

How to Escape the Claws of the Grammar Police

The Daily Post

If superfluous commas, misplaced apostrophes (looking at you, it’s/its, they’re/their!), and sentence-ending prepositions make you flinch in horror, you’re in the right place. We take grammar seriously at The Daily Post; my fellow editors and I can often be found quibbling and nitpicking over tenses, modes, and — you guessed it — punctuation. Good writing, though, isn’t merely about adhering to rules. It’s also about knowing how and when to break them. Today, let’s talk about grammar — and the kinds of liberties you might consider taking with it.

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The Bouquet

“Uh, well these are for my girlfriend’s mom. We’ve been together for six years and she never came out of the closet. I, you know, I understood. It was…um…interesting. Yeah, interesting to say the least, but you know, when you love someone, you just…yeah. So like, her mom wants to meet me now. Like, at first she called us rug munchers, which is like totally off the walls because her mom is like a religious nut, and its like, how do you know words like that? You know like, three words in English. I’m sorry, I totally take that back. That was mean. I’m mean when I’m nervous. Um yea, off topic, so anyway she’s meeting me here. But, like, we’re gonna go somewhere else and eat or something. I just thought that bringing her flowers would kind of like be the flame that burns down the ice cold wall of tension, you know. I love Carmen, and I want her mom to know that I’m like, obsessed with her. Honestly, I just don’t want her mom to think that Carmen will be better off with a man. I know she’s old and traditional, but like, fuck that, you know? It’s 2014. Everyone is gay. And if they aren’t, they don’t know it yet. I’m kidding, I don’t think everyone is gay. I’m just nervous, I honestly don’t know what to do right now, and I probably sound crazy. So anyway, she’ll probably rip me a new one, but like, who’s mean to someone with flowers? Shit, I’m doing it again. I’m really sorry. I think I’m subconsciously trying to impress you. Wanna tape my mouth shut? Seriously, like I’ll let you. But then when Carmen’s mom comes, you have to take it off because I don’t want her to think I’m some sort of freak that like, tapes Carmen’s mouth shut. Fucksicle, I think that’s her. Alright, I have to go. This was off the record right?”



I wrote a story pretty recently that kind of left me on my ass. I think it made me scared to write. I was so caught up with posting things and making sure that I was consistent that I kind of lost myself. I lost my art. I re-read my story White Walls, and honestly, I was embarrassed to finish it. It was so terrible. I wanted to delete it, but left it up to punish myself. Kind of a little lesson, like think about what you post before you post it. It just made me think about who I am as a writer. This blog has helped me find myself in a way I thought I never could. I surprised myself, and it was nice. It made me happy. Now, reading that story, it was just a bunch of words piled together, and honestly, I didn’t need most of those words. I was trying too hard. I was trying to impress people, I think. I’ve never done that before. I’ve never put the opinions of other people over my work, and that…embarrassed me. I felt embarrassed to be in my own skin. I’ve had all of these interesting ideas of things I could write, but…I’m afraid to write. I’ve taken a few days and it has felt great, but I need to get back into it. I guess I just don’t know how. I’m also pretty lazy. I’m going to start by tuning up a story. Something I was working on, but stopped. I’d like to have a rule of not moving on to other projects unless I’m done with my current project, but that would never work for me. I’m too all over the place. Anyway, I just felt like I had to write something. And now that I am, I feel good. It could be the three beers I just had, but I’m having a hard time ending this little journal because I’m having so much fun getting this off my chest. I’m starting a new job tomorrow and I’m nervous. Not nervous to work, but nervous to see how my writing will do. I tend to become a workaholic and end up leaving no time for myself, but I can’t let that happen this time. I promised that this year would be all about my writing, and I’m keeping that promise. I have a few contests I’ll be entering and I have a few months to get a few pieces ready, but until then, I’m just gonna focus on writing for myself. I won’t try to overcompensate anymore. I don’t like making myself feel this way. So, for anyone who read White Walls, I’m sorry it sucked. I’m sorry I used big words for no reason. I don’t know how not to do that. I’m learning though! First step is admitting the problem, right?

Ellen Page’s coming out speech

Ellen Page's coming out speech.

White Walls Pt. II

I tried to speak, but my voice was stifled and my body was numb. I was thrown into an alternate reality, a paralyzing realm of incapability. I felt stuck in place, yet my eyes and brain were functioning properly. I watched as they brought a screaming man into my room. I witnessed the brutality of sucking out every last motor skill in someone’s brain through a tiny, little tool. I heard myself moan and groan, as my slightly open mouth cultivated spit that reluctantly dripped down my chin. My new cell mate seemed to have gotten something stronger because he lied on the gurney crookedly, half of his body hanging over the railing as his eyes were completely rolled to the back of his head. They squelched the shining light that existed inside of him. Personnel effortlessly transferred his comatose body over to the well-made hospital bed, hooked him up to an IV, and pulled the curtain between us as they exited the room in a single file line. Their faces were as long as the Nile and their souls were black as tar. Their eyes were empty and lifeless. Now that I was mentally and physically confined, I wondered how much time would pass before my livelihood was restored? I felt myself getting drowsy, but I fought it. I wanted to deepen my connection with myself, and with this unabridged new reality. The inside of my head was filled with a buzzing static that grew louder and louder as I fell deeper into the void. Heaviness weighed over me and my body involuntarily lied on stale white sheets. I was stranded. I’d been thrown into the obscurity of my mind, the key had been forced into my bloodstream, and all I could do was think. The slow beat of my heart was the only thing I could hear amongst all of the beeping, buzzing, banging, and the hushed voices that were leaking with insincere care. If their hearts were pure and genuine, the last thing they would want to do is to trap me inside of my fucking mind when the only thought I could have is how to release my soul from the firm grasp this world seems to have on it. They were faker than their smiles. If they truly cared, they would’ve just put me to sleep. With each passing minute, I became more aware of my life. My nerveless body is a representation of what my life has been for years. I’ve been conscious and I’ve been functioning, but I believe everything inside of me has been dead for a long time. My only friend has been my thoughts, and yet, they prove to be my worst enemy. 

I was woken up by the sound of banging. It sounded like something was clanking against the metal railing of the hospital bed, but with the curtain pulled, there was no way to tell. The mystery man on the other side of the curtain selfishly pulled me out of my sedation just because he was out of his, and I didn’t take kindly to that. I complied with his insanity for a few minutes longer, but his little jingle was making me uneasy.

“Dude, I’m mad too. I think everyone in here is. Making all that noise isn’t going to get you out, alright? Keep it down.”

I was given complete silence, just as I asked, and then he said, “We’re all doomed to the wraths of hell. They’re going to keep drugging us until we’re dead.” His cynicism made me chuckle, but then it also gave me shivers because it was true. At this point, we’re no longer actual people. Any shred left of individuality that remained in our beings hangs itself from the light fixtures as soon as we’re brought in here. The psych ward at the hospital is just a baby step before the inevitable leap of getting admitted into an actual asylum. Our brains would be turned into a hot pile of mush, and then we’d blend in with the radiating monotony and sooner than later, our souls would be as insipid and hollow as the white walls surrounding us.

“We’re already in hell,” I told him matter-of-factly.

I heard him snicker, and he responded just as darkly and said, “This isn’t remotely as tragic as our lives will be once we’re shipped off to the animal house.”

We shared a quiet laugh, and fell silent once again. We were two completely different people who were trapped in the same morbid reality and trying to escape it. The clanking started up again, but I was no longer bothered by it. Sounds of anguish reverberated in his head, it ached inside of his body, and his spirit continued to get crushed by the invasion of needles riddled with drugs. He needed to be put out of his misery. We were being kept alive to be robbed of our identities, and to be reminded every single day of our weaknesses; our inadequateness. I could have been dead. I could have been free to roam and float around a whole new space until the end of the world and reincarnation ensued. Mystery Man could have been in whatever fantasy world would relieve him of his ailments. We both laid there imagining and creating far away worlds, trying to savor every last drop of creative freedom before we were cross-eyed and drooling again.

“So, do you want to die?” I asked him shamelessly. If he got this answer right, I might make him a friendship bracelet. I heard him sigh heavily and rustle around a bit. For a second, I thought he didn’t hear my question, but he cleared his throat a bit and spoke up.

“I’d rather be dead than stuck in here, of course, but if I were a normal person, I think I’d enjoy life. Or try to, at least.”

His use of the word normal got my attention.

“What do you mean normal? We are normal. People who you consider normal just do a better job of holding in their shit. We’re the brave ones.”

He mulled this over for a bit and said, “I don’t think you’re brave for trying to kill yourself. The brave people are the ones who put up with their shit and face it. You’re a runner. That’s not brave. You’re just another little twat seeking attention. You would’ve gone through with it if you were truly in pain.”

“How do you know I tried to kill myself?”

“I saw your wrists when I was brought in. They were just hanging there, bandaged and destitute. You took anything left alive in you and tried to kill it. Your body trusted you, and you betrayed it. You’re a waste.”

He definitely wasn’t getting a friendship bracelet.

“You don’t know anything about my fucking life, and last time I checked, you were brought in here like a damn deer that’d just got shot in the forest.”

He laughed and said, “But weren’t you already drugged when I came in?”

That made us both laugh. We both realized the stupidity of blindly arguing about who was more stable as we were both imprisoned by psych ward constraints.

“Why do you want to die?”

“Well fuck, why do you want to live?” I wondered about what his face looked like and what kind of facial expressions he was making. I wondered what he was thinking.

After a moment, he said, “I’d like to continue living because life is funny.”

I scowled, not that he could see, and said “What’s so funny about life?”

“You’re young; you’re too busy obsessing about what’s wrong with your life and not what’s right. If you don’t die, maybe you’ll learn to see yourself a different way.”

“How did you end up here?”

“They tell me I’m a schizophrenic, but I’m a really smart man, I just think they’re afraid of what I can do with all of this information. I could take down the president if I wanted to.” 

He Doesn’t Look a Thing Like Jesus

I’ll never forget the first time I heard this song. It was a scorching hot summer and my sister and I spent it in Keansburg, New Jersey. I was in the living room playing Guitar Hero with my cousin, obviously kicking some serious ass. We’d just finished a round to Paramore’s Crush, Crush, Crush, and I requested a new song. Something we hadn’t played before. We went down the list and my cousin said, “Oh, this one is fresh. You’ll like it it.” I trusted him, and as soon as the song started, I felt the strings of my heart being tugged. My cousin had a friend who was always at the house and I was OBSESSED with him. He had a weird shaped head and honestly, kind of weird facial structure, but something about him was cool. The way he wore his socks just a bit under his knees, or how angry he got during a game of basketball at Forest Park, or how he said “God” after everything, made me swoon relentlessly. You can’t always understand why you like someone, you just do. So, as we rocked out like professional guitar players, the words of this song kind of stuck with me. Every time I saw him after that, I’d say to myself “he doesn’t look a thing like Jesus,” and kind of giggle. When we first got to Jersey, my twelve year old boy-crazy mind had decided that a summer fling would be the one and only thing to make my summer fantastic. I put my happiness on his back and was sure that he would relinquish any sadness I was feeling, or better yet, any insecurities. I wasn’t so hot back then. I then realized that I shouldn’t look to anyone to save me. No one should be in control of my happiness and my ability to flourish in anyway. I needed to learn how to save myself. On the contrary, I still chased him aimlessly, but I was twelve, you know? Still kind of stupid. Over the years, I’d listen to this song on repeat until the words registered, and honestly, nine years later, they don’t always stick with me. I still find myself throwing my self-worth on the burner waiting for someone to put out the fire. Then I’ll listen to the words.

“They say the devil’s water, it ain’t so sweet. You don’t have to drink it right now. But you can dip your feet every once in a little while.”


Saw this on Twitter and fell in love. How could you not?

Daily Prompt: With or Without You

Daily Prompt: With or Without You.