The Musings of My Mind

Month: March, 2014



I appreciate your candor.
I now understand who you think I am
&What you believe I am here for.
Thank you for creating a monster…
To you, I am vile.
My main purpose is to ruin,
Turn everything gold into
Thick, dark ashes.
Thick, dark gloom to your
Mediocre life.
Thank you for isolating me.
For casting a dark shadow
On my presence.
I’m slowly being eradicated
From you, them, and everything else
&It is all out of my control.
I am spinning in a glass house
&Stones are being thrown..
Vines have been grown,
&to you, I’ve been reaping
Yet, nothing has been sown.
I appreciate you bringing me
Into your world..
Just to watch you take me out of it.
Now, when I disappear..
When my fear becomes quite clear,
And I vanish into the forest..
Amongst dark shadows
&Thick, dark ashes..
You will not see me.
You will not hear me.
Save us all the trouble
Of Pretending that it will matter.

Reasons we are lost…

Awise man told a joke..

Someone I Don’t Know

Someone I don’t know died today. Perhaps they went peacefully, their spirit slowly being released from their body and their last breath being taken. Or, they died violently. They could have been thrown from a windshield during a head on collision. However that person went, they’re now a fading presence. That’s the eerie thing about death. When you lose someone, they’re still there. They lurk in the shadows quietly, watching you grieve or mourn, or move on with life normally. They live in the breeze that blows through leaves on trees, reminding you that a part of them is still holding on. When someone dies, they remain alive through hoarded memories. You seem them at the table on Thanksgiving, and imagine them laughing, eating, being themselves. You long for their presence, so the presence becomes more and more real. Death is quite tricky. It’s one of the hardest things to deal with, and I can’t help but wonder why I was given another chance at life while they’d just been evicted. Their lease on life was up and the landlord didn’t even give a warning. That’s it, you’re out. Did they fulfill their purpose? Did they apologize to the person they wronged? Were they able to achieve true happiness? Death reminds you how short life is. It reminds you how time runs out a lot quicker than we think. It brings to mind the image of an hourglass…slowly, but surely thinning out and become nothing but a realization that you are now nothing, and have nothing; time’s up. Someone I don’t know died today, and a part of me envies them. They are now free of obligations and emotions. They no longer have to live up to certain expectations, fulfill invisible requirements. The part of me that envies them imagines it being easier to be a rotting corpse rather than an actual, living person who is tired of life winning, versus me taking home the trophy. And then the part of me that understand the importance of life wants to live life greatly and amazingly so that person won’t feel like I’m a wasted body. Someone I don’t know died today, and as weird as it may be, that makes me really sad.


This past week has been pretty…insane, perhaps? I took a break from writing so that I could live in the real world for a bit, and well, I’m not sure how that worked out for me. Maybe it’s just me, but as a writer, sometimes I feel like I’m not even living my life. I’ll get into an argument with my best friend or something and halfway through, I’ll already be coming up with a story line and my interest in the situation is immediately gone. By that point, I’m creating characters and I’m imagining what it would like on screen. Sometimes I feel like I’m using everything around me as a prop. I’m not sure if that’s weird or not, but it sure does bug a few people. Here’s the thing though, I kind of use myself as a prop. I turn myself into a character. I’ve been blessed with empathy. I say blessed because I find it to be really amazing that no matter who someone is or what they’ve been through, I can always feel their pain. So when it’s my own pain or happiness or confusion or bewilderment, it’s on level 10. It’s either really high or really low, and most of the time, it’s really high. I use myself and my emotions as material, and that’s fine, but sometimes I wonder if I’m feeling them for myself or feeling to write. So, I took a break. During this break, I attempted to write journals daily. I already do write journals, but everything I write gets written on the computer. I decided to do it the old-fashioned way, the normal way, and I failed miserably. I hate actually writing. Am I a fake, wanna-be writer? Because my hand started cramping after a few minutes, my thought process is much quicker than my writing speed so I kept making mistakes, I kept forgetting what I was talking about, it was just bad. So I went back to writing on my laptop, and now, I’m on my phone. I’m not sure how I feel about failing at writing. My sister told me that I should practice daily, and I think she’s right. Technology has become a crutch, and one day, I won’t have my laptop or cellphone. In any case, I’ve come back home (figuratively). I refrained from writing stories, but I jotted all the ideas I had along the way. I refrained from reading other peoples blogs because for some reason, seeing other people write makes me want to write. Am I the only one? So, I stopped, and I didn’t like it. I felt kind of empty. I felt bored. I wanted to talk to myself in my creative space, I wanted to create people and lives and great romances or deaths, but I couldn’t. I’ll take that back, I could have, but I chose not to. I needed to touch base with my life again. Sometimes I feel like I’m not living it, I’m just writing it. They say writers are all crazy, and while I’ve known that I’ve always been a little loopy, the realization that I’m somewhat absent kind of scared me. I don’t want to be here, but not here. I want to be everywhere and really be there. Yesterday, I went to the movies with my family, and it was great. We saw Divergent and I must say, I really enjoyed being around them. I wasn’t in my phone editing, reading, or trying to kill myself for being too cheesy in a story or poem. I was just hanging out and it felt like I belonged there. Like I should have been there with them all along. It’s been a week since I last worked on anything, and it has felt like a lifetime. Just now as I was typing that, I was going to say two weeks. Then I told myself to stop being dramatic. So, one long week of me being the only character I worked on. While I enjoyed just living, I missed writing. I missed being in that zone, getting the right word in the perfect sentence, I missed being stuck in a story because my own character stumped me. This is what I love, this is what I do. Does anyone else have trouble with this or am I just crazy?

Wilted Flowers

“My mother didn’t like me very much. She never stated it, but the things left unsaid sometimes speak the loudest. My last memory of her is when I was little girl— I can never remember the exact age, but I know it was during that precious time where you think the world is perfect. It’s the sensitive age that teeters dreadfully on the fine line that stands between happiness and realizing that this world is the epitome of a shattered dream. Anyhow, we were in Kansas. We lived in this cozy little one-story house over by the orange groves, and it felt like each day was…a gift. But let me tell you, my little bubble got burst in the blink of an eye. I was sitting on the couch one day, swinging my miniature legs and eating a grape popsicle. The heat…goodness, the heat was unbearable. It made all the grownups so angry, they were all on edge. Kansas was all I knew, all my parents knew, but for some reason…we just, we could not get used to that heat.


Well, as I sat there on our awful, dingy couch, my parents argued relentlessly in their bedroom. I mean, I heard it, but I disregarded it. They were constantly at each other’s throats like petty siblings, but then they’d make up like lovers. They were passionate people, my parents. So anyway, my mother came frantically running at me. Tears were running down her face and she just looked so afraid, so stricken with fear that she began to lose all control of herself. I remember calling out to her, ready to embrace her, but right before she reached me, she froze. Just like that, in midair, my mother froze. And then, she collapsed on me. To be quite honest, I don’t recall anything after that. I just know that when I was finally brought back to life, my parents were dead. They say my father stabbed her and then stabbed himself. Since then, the biggest mystery of my life is their fatal argument. It’s like the five W’s are constantly replaying in my head; who, what, when, where, why? Who, what, when, where, why? Who, what, when, where, why? Anyway, my main goal in life is to be happy. I’d like to feel as free as I did back in Kansas, but everything feels so different now. Everything is…dismal. My parents are dead, I was brought up in a disgusting foster care system, I’ve never truly amounted to much, but the reason I feel unhappy isn’t because of me. I’m at peace with myself. I’ve learned to accept myself for everything I am, and everything I’m not. It’s the world that’s problematic. This world is filled with so many people, we are all so different and can learn so much from one another, but everyone hates each other. That makes me sad. It makes me feel like there isn’t a real thrill in life, no true desire. So, for years, I chased it. I searched every crevice, every nook and cranny of odd places, actual people, and professions for something that alluded to…love, real love. Once I realized that I wasn’t going to find it, I became an escort. I don’t think there’s anything more thrilling than being an escort. My whole life, I’ve received endless compliments about my beauty. Some say it’s ravishing. Whenever I look into the mirror, I see my mother. She had long, dark hair that intensified the blue in her eyes. She had these beautiful, beautiful eyes. They reminded me of a deep, euphoric ocean, and each time I looked into them, I’d just get lost. Even when she was mad at me, which…well she was always mad at me, but even then, I’d look directly into her eyes and I would remember why I loved her so much. She would only have to smile to bring out the weakest emotions in a person, especially my father. I often wonder if I have a semblance of her influence, but I don’t believe I do. A person like that is naturally charismatic. Her bouts of anger would prove otherwise, but I know she was had a lovely soul. Don’t get me wrong, I know my mother loved me, but I don’t think she particularly liked me. The attention my father gave me was too much for her to understand. It’s like she wished I had never been born just so she could have him to herself again. I didn’t think that back then, of course, but after endlessly replaying the scenes of my childhood over and over again in my head…I began to notice things. Anyhow, now I just stare into the eyes of my clients hoping to find an ocean as big as hers.”

“In your line of work, don’t you have to be charismatic?”


“Darling, prostitution doesn’t open it’s doors for anything but money. I’ve been successful simply because I’m told I’m beautiful, so I act that way. With that being said, I suppose I have my parents to thank for supplying me with something useful.”

“So, what’s next for you?”

“Show business, honey. I’m going to be perform for people all over the world. It’s going to be fabulous. Now, hurry and take my photo so you can say you knew me before the glitz and glam. Won’t that be grand?”

The One Thing Every Writer Hates To Hear


I am afraid.
I’m filled with this morbid fear
That eats at my mind,
Eats at my ability
To think properly
&make conscious decisions.
I am confused
And I am…alone.
The voices inside of my head
Serve as enemies with
Intentions of the worst kind…
They are riddled with emotion,
&Go against the logic in my brain..
Tell me to jump when I should sit
They urge me to give up&quit,
Do what I feel
At all times because emotions
Hold the key to life..
But perhaps I’ve been lied to
Because the key I have doesn’t
Fit in any keyholes.
It doesn’t unlock any doors,
Or help me reach my goals…
Instead, this key makes me fold.
It makes me afraid, then leaves me cold.
I’ve been turned into everything
I shouldn’t be..
I can’t turn off my thoughts,
Move past the self-inflicted rot..
Be a normal person and just live.
I want to live,
Be free and go on journeys,
But the only road I’ve been on
Is the interstate of confusion
&I don’t know how to get off.
I’d like to power down my brain,
Be a normal person and just live.
Be free and find myself…
Even though I think I lost myself
When I lost you.

Steven King’s Top 20 Rules for Writing.

Bobbie C. Bandy

I borrowed this post from Open Culture’s webpage. All of these were taken from Stephen King’s 2000 writing guide On Writing.

1. First write for yourself, and then worry about the audience. “When you write a story, you’re telling yourself the story. When you rewrite, your main job is taking out all the things that are not the story.”

2. Don’t use passive voice. “Timid writers like passive verbs for the same reason that timid lovers like passive partners. The passive voice is safe.”

3. Avoid adverbs. “The adverb is not your friend.”

4. Avoid adverbs, especially after “he said” and “she said.”

5. But don’t obsess over perfect grammar. “The object of fiction isn’t grammatical correctness but to make the reader welcome and then tell a story.”

6. The magic is in you. “I’m convinced that fear is at the root of most bad writing.”

7. Read, read…

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I’m not sure you understand
The magnitude of my feelings towards you..
How your smile tends to uplift me,
It turns my black sky, blue.
I’m not sure I’ve explained
How my heart seems to expand
When you walk by me slowly
&your scent seeps into
My skin..
You hold my mind in the palm of my hands..
&I’m then frozen in my stance..
As I watch you, watching me…
Watching how our eyes sultrily dance.
You and I are where
The sun&the moon shall meet..
Except we don’t separate to
Live two different lives..
We flourish freely in the vast sky.
Then we slip away discreetly
Never noticing the time passing by..
Only the ignited light in each other’s eyes.
The moment I gave me to you..
My heart swooned deeply..
You opened your arms so sweetly
&I began to understand
That love was not beneath me..
You tucked away our indiscretions so neatly..
We’d return to the world
&I’d try to find various things to complete me..
But it’s only you who sees me.
Only you who breathes me…
&Yet, it’s still you who bleeds me.