Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts

Tuesday, March 10, 2015

Chapter 16: Broke ass sexual chocolate.

I sort of have a job, i am waiting for a call today from my future boss and i got an email from this company that wants me to proof read company emails and shit. they'll pay me like $50 bucks to do something that a computer can do by its self. but I'm not going to pass up free money. any way i have been thinking of doing stand up for a little bit because I have a bunch of fucked up stories of my life that I feel like I could share for shits and giggles. my hair is growing out and i want to shave the sides again because I want to be a badass; iItold a friend of mine that i was going to clean up the sides and she was like "Nooo don't shave it you'll look like a boy." and i was like BITCH! you act like I haven't been old i look like a dyke with long hair as well. either way I have my hair with theses fucking foot ball player shoulders that i have i'm going to look butch, its a fucking given, I've played sports all my life so I have a weird square body and a girly face. if anything I look like a gay man I don't need your approval to shave my head so i can look like storm from the X-men comics. but at the same time I don't own a set of clippers so I cant do it myself and there are no reputable black stylists in Tujunga. so i'm going to have to wait until I can buy a pair of clippers myself. but any way my Ex's mom set me up with this house sitting gig so i'm working three jobs like a Jamaican .but to be honest i have no idea what I am doing in life I'm just trying to save enough money so I can get my drivers licence and a car before the end of this year.I'm doing pretty well in the productivity sphere. and I have been working on my books so I can try to publish them again. the thing is sometimes I just don't feel inspired I feel like I have to write so people don't judge me for just sitting at home or going on walks. no one thinks I do enough of anything. I like writing but I feel like I am pressuring myself to publish so I can prove things to people. I keep hearing crap like my mom was talking to me one day about how her co-workers felt about me not going to college and I was like "are they going to pay my fuckin' tuition?" I'm not lazy and i'm not an idiot. I wasn't put in a position where everything would just be laid at my feet, I'm tired of feeling guilty that I'm not like everyone else. i mean at least i'm trying to go after one of my dreams instead of just going out and getting drunk or high or something like that. I mean the grossest thing I do is masterbate and that's fucking natural. I'm not like everyone else, this is my book my story my life. I don't want to feel like I'm spoiled because I'm not. I shop with my own money, the only thing I don't pay for is food and rent and like utilities and shit because I start working next week.by the time I start working then i'll pay for that but I want to be somebody and I want to rub it in people's faces. like no I didn't go to college, but i fucking made it anyway. it irks me because when I want to talk about my writing or my novels no one wants to listen to me, but I'm supposed to listen to everyone else when they want to talk about me going to art school or being a make up artist or going to community college. It still feels like my life isnt even mine, even though I'm supposed to take control over my life.

Friday, January 23, 2015

Chapter 11: The Sluts Shame

You took me out to dinner
I gave you head in the car
But now you treat me how
The black community treats Kendrick Lamar
I gave you my body
and you still shattered my heart
 But somehow i'm still the reason we ended up apart.
I should apologize
For treating you like a work of art.?
I should take the blame for trekking through the flames
putting in effort and doing my part,
for my honesty and hoping someone could love me.
I need to work on myself?
but i'm not the one who puts people on a shelf
just to watch them shatter when they're no longer beautiful.
I wish i could hate you but in my heart your soul is still beautiful.
I wish that if i died tonight the first thing
i would see wasn't your two toned eyes staring back at me.
i wished when i saw the streets where you kissed
that my entire body wouldn't feel so heavy.
is it my pride or my arrogance that sees this as a punishment.
or is it the fact that my beating heart betrays me when i think of you
sometimes i see myself coming up to you
but in my head i'm not sure what i'd rather do.
I'm not sure if i'd kiss you
or try to break you like a vase because my
body is so confused and all it craves is your taste.
it's my fault you got tired of me.
but in reality it's your own weakness that tore us apart.
in your chest is a wad of stained glass but god gave
me an elastic heart that takes this treatment over and over again,
just to see your face even though it scowls every time it sees me.
I still hope that the image never leaves me.