Yeah. You.

You're on my mind a lot.
     You shouldn't be, but you are. I could put my foot down and end this, but do I want to? I'd hate to stop seeing that smile of yours.
     I honestly don't know if you even care about me, though. Do you? Or are you just stroking your ego by saying those things? Those things that make my heart rush and stomach twist. The things that I want to hear from my s/o, but I don't. He's never said those things before. He's not good at words like you are.
     You shouldn't be on my mind. You're bad for me. Really bad. I kinda wish I pushed you away when I had the chance, to tell you to stop, so my perspective of you wouldn't change. I would've been completely fine by us being simple friends. But now everything has changed. And I'm scared.
     I don't want to lose you. I see you as a good friend. A friend that I want to keep seeing because your presence gives me joy. You're a great person to be around and I wish I wasn't like this. I wish I could just do the things that I want to do without being tied down. I feel like I'm being held back. This isn't fair to either of us, nor him; the one I should be thinking about. Not you. Him.
     But it's you. It's always you, now.

A Balancing Act

Don't be loud. Don't be too quiet.
She eats too much. Does she ever eat?
Wear a dress. But not too short.
Be Smart. Speak up. But wait your turn.
Be free. But not too available.
Be sexy. But not too sexy.
Don't be shy though. No one likes a prude.
She's a slut. She's still a virgin.
Make yourself look pretty. Don't wear too much makeup.
Do we even know how she really looks?
Be yourself.
But not really.



[credit: Julia Kocea, IG: @juliakocevas]

untitled 1

I will miss you.
I've told you a couple of times.
I knew it would end.
Doesn't it always?
I will miss you.

I'd like to tell you how grateful I am,
how much our short-lived friendship has meant to me,
but I'll settle for keeping quiet.
And in silence I'll watch the days fade away,
because I will miss you.

I won't forget how you made me feel,
how my heart swelled with pride when you chose me over them.
How my throat constricted and eyes burned when you praised me.
Multiple times, you've praised me.
I will miss that.

Two short months spent well with you.
I wish there would be more.
It was a good run.
I won't see you much longer, after this.
And that's okay.
Because you're you, and I'm me, and we both know that things draw to an end.
Just don't forget about me.
For I won't forget about you.
I will miss you, Raph.

Monetize

Take your passion and hold on to it. Don't let your occupations in life overwhelm you. Don't let it fade. Your passion is just as important as your work-life. Just because it doesn't make you money [at this second] doesn't mean it's not important. Mold your passion in to your daily routine. Hold on to it.
Writing is my passion. Photography is my passion. I am a wannabe author and wannabe photographer. Summer was suppose to embrace both of them equally, but work came through, and they were both canceled out dramatically. I barely have time to write; but that is an excuse. I have plenty of time to write. It is my passion, and work/school, will not overthrow it. I won't let it happen.

"Take your passion and put it into something that you can sell. You have to synthesize what you love. Put it into a bucket that is business." // Gary Vaynerchuck

"My Michael,"

At the bottom of the letter was a name written in a hand writing that I recognized. I reread it multiple times, my mind tracing back to the one I called mine. Are we really that alike? The pain cleared my mind a little. I had to sit there and stare at the love letters kept secret and hidden away.
I never doubted her love for him. Maybe when they fought. Maybe when he did the unspoken, forever tearing a hole in all our hearts. But now I understand a little bit more.

Michael may be miles away, unseen, but he is forever buried in my mother's heart. Where he belongs. Where he should always be.

"Because you'll always be my Michael...." 

Semicolon

Amy Bleuel, the founder of Project Semicolon passed away of suicide on March 23rd, 2017. A semicolon in the mental health community is known as a symbol of hope - a semicolon is used when an author could've ended their sentence, but chose not to.

Today my heart continues to ache after hearing the devastating news of Amy Bleuel's passing. Amy gave so many people hope and encouraged those struggling to keep fighting. I'm so sorry we couldn't save you, Amy. I'm so sorry that you couldn't carry on your sentence. 

Rest in peace, Amy.

August 3, 1985 ~ March 23, 2017

Out

     The words are trapped in my mouth. The one person I thought I could depend on does not have enough patience for me. She thought that I wouldn't talk with her. I felt trapped. But how can I tell her when the words die in my throat before they even reach my mouth. I have to clench my teeth to force them out.

      I can't get my words out. I cried. I can't word them. 

      Yes you can!

      No, I can't.

     Sometimes I need to sit there for a moment to think of an easy way out. To come up with words that won't make my throat constrict. 

     She doesn't believe me. She yells at me. Demanding me to talk. I try, I really do. But I'm stuck. My words are trapped in my head, forming and breaking, trying to figure themselves out and making sentences but having to tear them down because they won't come out. They won't come out. 

Sorrow

Sorrow

Sorrow creeps

Along heavy feet

It stands watching

Towards cities and towns

Through cold shadows

And then walks on

(In the manner of Carl Sandburg's Frog)

Evergreen

Sin and retribution
It would be my last punishment

I am

a person who

remembered

the comfort of the trees,

remembered the

warm, dusty leaves,

and the cold, enormous sky. Strange how

sleepless hours

made no sound.

I Am A Writer

I am not an artist, I am a writer.

I pour my emotions into blank pages.

I piece my work together like a puzzle,

But I eventually pick it clean.

The clutter, the flaws.

Four pages break down to two.

No more clutter, but plenty of flaws.

And yet, those flaws resemble my style.

Everyone has their own style;

Van Gogh, Shakespeare.

I am writing for only one audience:

Me.

Writing is hard.

Don't believe anyone who tells you that it's not.

Painting must be hard, too.

Creating a scene on a canvas,

Or even a slab of glass.

It's art. Of course it's hard.

It could be a leather bound book,

Or a poster.

Either way, an artist's emotions hide in their work.

Are you an artist?