My writing is careless at best. I rarely proofread or plan. Usually, I spit some shit out on the page and hope for the best. I wish I could say it's some artistic choice to show the frailty and imperfections of existence, but it's really that I lack discipline. I guess it's a bit like fucking. Give it all the hell you have in the moment of inspiration, but you know you could have done so many things better if the goal was perfection rather than getting lost in the moment. I guess that means a typo is like knocking on the wrong door. Just laugh at yourself and keep at it and embrace the joys of imperfection. As long as the closing sums up intention the reader is left satisfied. So my shits unrefined as hell, but I like to think there's a certain beauty and innocence flowing within my awkward wordings and forced lines or conclusions. When inspiration hits, just spit it out and move on. Wait for the next time a moment cracks you open enough you feel it's worthy of sharing. Repeat. So ya, a lot like fucking.

Copper thoughts of tarnished sense

Saliferous; words slow to speak

Aged in sorrow’s elements

Draw jaded tears down bronze-hued cheeks

For which worth is it you’d fail?

Treasured tokens; foolish pride?

Win or lose; heads or tails

Patina rusts the heart, oxide

He broke a dollar; mix of change

One early Monday morn’

Donned his hat and headed out

To visit friends, alone

On foliage guarded pathways;

Decorated, sun-kissed miles,

He reminisced their days of old;

How innocent their smiles

Solemnly, he neared them

In silence, they reposed

Breezes of their shadows

Bristled by as his hair rose

A penny here, a penny there

Each grave he passed; respects

Six cents left; he recollects

Their vow, sworn, to protect

His change began to dwindle

As thoughts chilled through his bones

Drawing nearer to the grave

That bore his best friend’s stone

Tears filled his eyes, saluting,

With metallic-scented hand

Honoring the man he’d known

From bootcamp to his end

It wasn’t much, he pondered

Watching rays bounce off the token

But in the forty-one cents left

Lay all his words, unspoken

Tokens left at gravestones, dating back to the Roman Empire, are a means of showing respect. This piece today, “Loose Change”, is my humble attempt to show my respect to all those who’ve served our country with the ultimate sacrifice of their lives. Today, we honor you and pray for the grieving loved ones that you’ve left behind.

black crows peck at my corpse

skeletonized remains alone and forgotten

struggling to wash pure with gallons of tears

memories branded and seared into breast

hollow throbbing bones collapsing in ruins

black crows peck at my corpse

dissolving into puddles of rancid death

unfolded particles of grief and sorrow

trudging paths of sharpened pain

digging into wounds, praying you’ll hear

black crows peck at my corpse

my feelings packed beyond last door

unraveled like a threadbare sweater

neglected and held in contempt

erased from deep depths of darkness

black crows peck at my corpse

abandoned and invisible in my corner

fading into grey world of oblivion

tiptoeing on silent padded feet, as I

pull blade of scorn from bleeding chest.

black crows peck at my corpse

“I am still here!” I scream

begging you to blow air into lungs

so I can inhale your essence

but I plod on, lost and alone.

Dear Applicant,

We regret to inform you that your Application for a Licence to Remain Terminally Self-Hating has been rejected.

Seeing that you have performed hundreds of thousands of loving and compassionate acts over the years, affecting people around the world with positive moments, no matter how small, we cannot offer you the applied-for License, in spite of the fact that you are fascinatingly human and have made many wonderfooly* cringe-worthy mistakes. In place of the License applied for, we are pleased to offer you a License To Forgive Yourself And Keep Moving Forward, herewith enclosed in pocket-size format. Please keep it near your heart at all times, and refer to it often.

Also included, as an additional consolation prize, is our free Invisible Wrist Tattoo that says “Stop,Think, Act” in our brand new Developer font. We recommend that you apply it immediately and glance at it whenever you’re feeling the urge to do something cringe-worthy from this moment onwards.

We wish you all the very best in your future endeavours. Please write to us again whenever the mood strikes, and we’ll see what we can do for you.

Sincerely,

Your friends and fans at

the Bureau of Universal Development (BUD).

*wonderfooly: /wun’ der foo lee/

Adv. with a wonder-inducing foolishness often regretted after the fact, clearly displaying one’s perfectly imperfect human quality.

#challenge #rejectionletter #self #selflove

When life lobs

you lemons,

squeeze the light.

Throw lemons

lightheartedly

to the wind

and then order

the lobster tail,

leaving

no seeds behind

lick lots of

lemon butter

on your

luscious lips.

#challenge #LobTheLemon #LotsOfLobster

Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday, Sunday.

Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday, Sunday.

No Monday in life doesn't change much.

Just the number of days in the week.

There's still the weekday, the weekend, the regretting re-entering the weekday.

If there is no Monday, that does not mean that there won't be the shock or displeasure of going about your life on Tuesday.

No Monday changes the calendar.

It changes the days of the week that young children learn in early grades.

It transfers the hatred to Tuesday.

No Monday in life doesn't change much.

I may not be who you think I am.

I am a chameleon. I am who you want me to be. You want a friend who rant to? I'm there. You want someone to cry with? I'm there. I am whoever you need/want me to be.

I'm a shadow of a human. That's what 8th grade and 3 months of high school did to me. It robbed me of everything.

I am no one.

You try to tell me who I am and what I have- what I love to do- but you don't know me. No one does.

I don't anymore.

You say I like books but they just break my heart at the end. You say I like music but sometimes it makes me cry. You say I like my friends but I don't know if they're actually my friends. You say I like fashion but it's just cloth draped over my prison of flesh. You say I like tech and robotics but I don't understand it anymore.

You don't know me. So stop acting like you do.

I don't know me. So stop pretending like I do.

People say, "just be yourself," but I am ever changing and I don't know who I am so how can I be myself?

Sometimes I wonder- if I have multiple personalities. I can be her around that chick and I have to her around him and I can't be her around them so I have to her her.

I'm no one on the inside. I'm everyone on the outside.

I'm only human.