Waiting On Adventure

It is time once again to open your eyes, to take in what you were once missing.
It is time to take a deep breath, to let go of your regular vices.
It is time to release, to embrace the journey.
It is time to drop the guilt, to find value in yourself.
It is time.
Pack your bags, open new doors, move on from what you knew to be truth before you opened your eyes, before your realized, before you turned all of your truths in to lies, lying on the floor next to who you once were, a shell of a human you once knew, the person that you introduced before this trip, the person you are trying to escape, the life that they once embraced. This is what you created, a life that was born out of desperation, habits that you did not intend to make, balanced by a passion for experiences, a irrational desire to keep living, the belief that life can get much better than this, the existence of blind optimism, fueling an undefined expression, allowing the release of everything, the messy, the anxiety, paired with depression, countered by a desire to keep living, keep traveling.
This is worth it, the mounting uncertainty.
This is worth exploring, the smallest of bravery.
This is worth pursuing, the answers to questions never considered.
This is why the world exists, for a fresh perspective.
Dive in, embrace living, continue questioning, searching, observing, taking in everything, living, breathing, exploring, and never knowing exactly where you are headed.
Stop to question, to think through everything, to consider what it all means, to have answers to nothing, to feel secure in discovery, justified in a blind belief, confident in uncertainty.
It is time for an escape, to finally catch a break.
It is time to move forward, into the unknown.
It is time to let go.
Drop the panic and the uncertainty.
Drop the reflexive coping, stop dreading new experiences.
Drop into living.
Explore more than another country, explore the person who it makes you be, the unusual opportunities, the characters in passing, your internal reactions, your external personality, the way others believe that you are living.
Provide answers, with no judgment.
And passports, with no constraints.
Offer questions, with respect.
Give opportunity a chance.
Allow this all to happen.
Settle in.
Your adventure is about to begin.

Contradict Me

What could you have meant by that?
Your action’s vague and retracted. Your mannerisms reactive.
Where is that smile you practiced? Does it pair well with a fake laugh?
See the ideas form and pour out.
The judgement stop just at the tip of the mouth.
Knowing not of which you are talking about. And yet carry on with doubt.
Hear it in your speech. Muse upon these feelings.
Grind it into your teeth, and feel the fresh bleeding.
Allow it to seep in further.
No longer learning, just yearning for free speech.
What is it that you’re hiding?
Bury it deep, never allow it to breathe.
Stuff it away silently. No one will notice.
Keep that secret. No one will see what was never missing.
Do you even dream?
Made of complaining complacency. Stop and see.
Check the navigation, but reference nothing of legitimacy.
Live shallow and feel deeply.
I can read it in the way you speak.
Sense that something is missing, while knowing not of which you speak.
See blindly. Feel curiosity.
Expect nothing.
Who lives so counter intuitively?
To find this so naturally. So unexpectedly.
So free. Yet trapped.
So independent. Yet nothing to grasp.
Living in the past.
Who thought of dreaming? When there was nothing.
Find the inspiring, in the pressure of living.
Feel complete, despite the tragedy of being human.
Look for nothing, and expect everything.
Challenge you to see. Open your eyes and feel deep.
Touch the insides and set them free.
Wander far and wide, until your feet give out from underneath.
Stop to believe. Stop to see.
Stop trying. Your actions are not fooling.
Your ideas are not unusual. Everyone dreams for something.
Admit you want it. Work to achieve it.
Stop the unnecessary beating.
What could you mean? When you say you are tired of living.
Where is the feeling? When you stop being angry.
What is lacking? When you stop approaching from the attack.
Lay back. Step forward.
Turn to look over your shoulder. There is nothing and everything left to see.
Letting go is not done simply. Know that this is living.
Thankful for being. Moving every day with more meaning.
Is it working?

Is This A Dream?

The freedom to do what? What am I living for? What is the dream that I was told to live? Where is its conscious? What does this dream sacrifice? The reality or the possibility? The thrill or the complacency? What could this dream mean? That I am more worthy than others who dream? That my dreams are more deserving? That I am the reason that this dream exists? What was the originating wish? To do more than this? What were we aiming to accomplish? To release ourselves from oppression? Or to inflict it on other humans? Where were we going with this? To have a new beginning? Or to ruin what we’ve taken? Who can claim that it is a dream we are living? Who can say that we have accomplished what set out to do? Who is looking on with approval? Who can say that they followed through? Who found the answers we were always looking for? Who can look past the destruction? Who is proud of what we’ve done? Where is the collective we’ve been serving? What are they doing? Are they living the dream? Did we give them a reason to continue believing? Did we provide nurturing? What is missing still? Why is freedom not felt? Where are the rights we were fighting for? Did we achieve what we set out to reach? Have we defined freedom? Do other countries look at us for guidance? Are they envious? Do they also see what we’ve lost? Can we be leaders and oppressors? Can we expand our reach even further? Can we show others a way of living? One that is free? One that is hopeful? A dream that can be earned by everyone? What is this “American Dream”? Who is it serving? Where are its origins? Found in a desire to serve a community? Or born out of a hateful history? Is it about division? Or are we truly united as one? What are our intentions? To free the people? Or enslave them even further? What have we accomplished so far? What does this dream mean to me? Does it provide opportunity? Does it change that way I am living? Does it make me believe in something? Is it larger than myself? Or is it intended to only serve one? When will I know that I have achieved it? It is a feeling? Or does someone else declare my success? It is a state of living? Or will I one day be done? Is it something that I can add to my resume? Or does that defeat the point I am trying to convey? Where is the dream of my generation? Why are we still using the same language of our ancestors? What do we have in common with them anymore? Do our goals align with what we’ve experienced? Did those before us already ruin what we’ve been working towards? Does the dream even exist? Or have we been promised something that died off? Are we looking for something that develops a nation? Or something that will just save us from our own destruction? What am I looking for? A sign that I am successful? Extra money to burn? A status symbol? Who even dreams anymore?

Remember Me

I used to be someone,
Someone who used to drink from evening until the next morning.
I used to like being broken,
Someone who was proud of how numb they had become.
I used to belong,
Surrounded by alcoholics who normalized passing out on random floors.
I used to be comfortable,
Fitting the role of the drunk girl.
I used to think there was everything wrong with me,
Justifying my depression with my drinking.
I used to release,
Allowing my life to fall to broken pieces.
I used to believe,
That I lacked the ability to function normally.
I used to black out,
The memories that I never want to forget.
I used to pass,
Out on the floors of random bathrooms.
I used to listen,
To the influence of the negative.
I used to think,
There might never be an end to this self-abuse.
I dove deeper,
Into the depression that enveloped me.
I used to be in denial,
That the path I was travelling was destroying me.
I used to sleep,
Soundly with the influence of drinking.
I used to breathe,
Smoke filled air that limited my capacity for living.
I used to forget,
That I am only human.
I used to pass the test,
Of drug dependence.
I used to never regret,
The life that I was wasting.
I used to watch the time pass slowly,
Painfully missing my youth slip away from me.
I used to feel accomplished,
Bragging about my ability to finish a fifth in one sitting.
I used to fit in,
In a room filled with men.
I used to be dependent,
On drinking.
I used to be reliable,
To always be carrying weed.
I used to think,
There was nothing that could save me.
I used to drink,
To feel something.
I used to smile,
At the fact that I couldn’t remember anything.
I used to worry,
That I had lost the ability to feel.
I used to take pride,
In the fact that my emotions were something I could deny.
I used to never cry,
Over the choices I made while I was intoxicated.
I used to take pleasure,
In the actions I took with blurred vision.
I used to commit,
To living a life that was quickly destroying me.
I used to love,
Never remembering.
I used to be,
Barely living.

I Don’t Know

What is missing? My maturity or the solutions that I never knew about? What can I do to solve it all? Sit and think even further? Dive deeper into the memories that I’ve refused to unfold? Is that where my secrets are kept? Somewhere in the depths of my past experiences? Or are they on my mind now? Am I ignoring the key to mental health?
There is so much to think about.
Can I sit all day and ponder my life away? Who will pay me for this? Who sees value in my musings? What do I think will happen? Will I become more independent or weirder with detachment? Will I solve the world’s problems or just continue avoiding them? What can thinking do to serve me? Or will it just place me further away from what I am wanting?
I want to live happily.
Is depression something I can release? Is anxiety something I can continue ignoring? Is this the way I was always meant to be living? Is it worth struggling? What can I find comfort in? How am I so late to this realization? Where is the help I was expecting? When did I lose the joy of living?  Did it come with growing up? Or was I always prone to depression?
Allow me to express myself.
Is this what it feels like to be perfect? Is this what it means to be human? Am I living the best life I can? Who can verify that I am? Who can tell me what comes next? What am I expecting? A nicely wrapped up ending? Or a clearly new beginning? Can I request a new way of living? Who will review my application? Who will approve this change of me?
I am my own authority.
What am I challenging? Why do I insist on making life difficult? Can I continue changing? Or am I reaching a stagnant point of living? Am I plateauing? Can I continue developing? What do I have to offer in my musings? What am I gaining? Am I really living? Or am I avoiding? Am I processing? Or am I stuck in a never ending cycle of my own creating?
Stop it.
Where does this end? When will it happen? What is the timeline for finding inner peace? Can I schedule it in my planner? Can I set a countdown timer? When can I plan on accomplishing this goal?
I am tired.
Why do I have to begin this again? What am I gaining in the end? What is the point of so many unanswered questions? Why can I not stop asking them? Is it because I’m only human? Can I change my approach to living? Is there a point to all this struggling? What is the return on investment for anxiety? Can I bank on the strength I am told I am gaining?
Answer me.

My First Taste of Reality

It was not the fantasy that I expected. It was lacking something, stage lighting, or maybe a tone of respect. It was dirtier than I anticipated, darker in a way that was uncomfortable and yet did not hide anything. There was a salad bar for fifty cents, and a tap selection that was larger than the list at the brewery we just visited. It was not completely filled with men, but had a number of women, including me, taking in the unnatural scenery. I smiled reflexively, not wanting to make anyone uncomfortable, while I witnessed what some women do to earn money. I tried to put myself in their shoes, ten inches high with platforms and ties, and yet I could not see their motivation, what made them do this for a living. I imagined losing everything, becoming numb enough to dance slowly, lazily, across a pen, spread my legs for strange men, allow them to look deep into what defines me as a woman. I pictured a lack of self respect, paired with athleticism, spinning around a pole with a smile plastered on. It was the same steps over and over again, rotating stages every twenty minutes, the same moves, with the same amount of emotional distance, convincing strangers that they might have the chance to sleep with them. It was almost disgusting, but that language is degrading, and these women seem to have experienced much worse, this was just work, they have a distance put between them and the creepy men, they have some form of protection. They seemed to go as far as they wanted, crossed whatever lines I imagined were drawn, becoming more comfortable with the amount of money thrown at them. They honed in on the bills on the counter, coming over to say hello for just a dollar, staying longer if they liked the conversation or if more cash was placed on them, allowing it to be placed almost anywhere you wanted, as long as it didn’t touch their vagina. One of them played with my hair, asked me where I was from, had me shake my tits with her for fun. They were so human, so shamelessly bearing their bodies in front of me, but there was no real dancing, there was flirting more than anything, pretending to be interested in what everyone was saying, and bruising that I noticed across their bodies, and an unmistakable high in their distant eyes. The worst part was watching them collect their earnings, crawling around on their hands and knees, collecting their hard earned cash and stashing it in a purse they had to carry, moving from dancer, creator of fantasies, to custodian for a night’s earnings, to banker to security, walking away slowing, with a smile, and a pain in their eyes for what they have to do for a living.

This Morning

Where did this depression come from? What am I doing? Why do I think that I have to change everything? I am tired of me. I am tired of this. I am fucking tired of being depressed. I claim a natural predisposition but do nothing to work against it. I claim to do everything to help myself, but face none of my demons. I claim to seek healing, but secretly pray for it to get the best of me. I want to be validated. I want confirmation that I am crazy. I want nothing more than to be someone else’s problem. Can you solve my depression? Can you give me a reason every day to continue living? Can you convince me that I am worth saving? What influences am I blaming now? Who holds the key to changing my life for the positive? When can I meet them? What can they share that I am missing? I am sick. This is unnatural. I am looking for so much more. Scouring my brain for the answer. This has gotten the best of me. I have no idea what direction I am facing. Or why I continue rhyming. I lost track of my writing. I am off pace with everything that once meant the world to me. I hate feeling this way. I would rather be manic in the other direction. I cannot imagine a life without depression. I don’t know why it still surprises me. I know that I can influence the way I am living. There is hope. I just don’t want to see it. There is an opportunity for healing. I just don’t want to initiate it. I am tired. Exhausted. There is no reason for this. I know I am missing. I can feel the depression. It starts in my stomach. Then travels up to my lungs. I am coughing up the hope that I once thought to hold. It moves through my veins. Controls my brain. It doesn’t allow me to eat. I feel irrational hate for everything. I want to hide. I am already tired of this method of healing. I want to vomit up everything. My body hates me. And I hate it. A fucked up version of a symbiotic relationship. All I am doing is watching the clock. Waiting for the timer to go off. To release me from exploring my own thoughts. I don’t like where this is going. I hate that I am prone to this. I am helpless. And lying to myself. I know how to resolve this. Just eat something. Just move your body. Just allow some form of release. Don’t overthink it. Just go to the store. Get the medicine. Open your mouth then just listen. Your phrasing is negative. Your tone is angry. You just need a break. This is understandable. You are assuming the worst. You are looking for an excuse to hate everything. You need to finally get counselling. Stop bitching. Stop complaining. Accept you are changing. Know this will take time. Go back to the basics. Walk your dog. Eat. Sleep. Don’t worry. Accept the struggle. Let it go. Drop what is not working. And be kind to yourself. You are living.


Ten years ago I lost my virginity. A moment that meant so much that it defined who you might turn out to be. Lose it early and you’re destined to be a slut. Don’t give it up and you are labelled the prude that no one lies about loving. Somewhere in the middle and you’re just following a trend. It used to be so important. I used to care about what others thought of it. I used to hide the fact that I had no prospects to sleep with. I was told it brought you value. That the action would change your reality. That is what I should really be experiencing. Natural, uninhibited, freedom. That is what I was supposed to be gaining. Experience, a purpose, one of life’s most important moments. I almost missed it, forgot what I was doing, started laughing in the midst of it. This is what sex is? The thrashing of two bodies without coordination? The sweat and mess? The practised noises? I thought there was more to this. Is it really that simple? And now what defines me? Ten years after the pivotal moment? How much sex I am having? Or the extremes that I am willing to reach? What provides my body with value? The positions that it can stretch into? Or the manipulation of it for the satisfaction of others? How are there still questions associated with this old news? Where is the person I was meant to share my body with? Will this practice ever get easier? I state that it is not what brings me value. I deny what I am told I have to do. I am not embracing my youth. I am wasting the body that I was given to use. I have no desire to compromise in my pursuit. Does this still make me a prude? Can I deny the rumours from high school? Or am I just now learning what to do? Am I no further than I was in my youth? Where is the stick to measure against? Can I prove my worth with sex? Am I missing something without it? Where can I sign up for a good experience? Can I have the satisfaction without the emotion? Can I practice detachment with another human? How is this serving me? A complex for a lack of it. Guilt for practised excessiveness. Fear that it will never be enough. A practice in being human. The willingness to make a connection. Is it still needed with modern technology? Can it happen naturally? Or does it always have to be a pursuit? Is it the only sign of success in your youth? How do I still have questions about the most basic practice of being human?


The power, palpable,
diverse palates of all kinds of flavors,
there was something so addictive to it,
something that drew you in,
there was sex, sweat,
the freeing of the mind, unchained,
the best gift I could ever offer me,
the opportunity, honor,
power of position,
center stage,
bearing my mind, body, complexes and beautiful soul,
feel me run deep,
drop slow,
enter you unexpectedly,
embrace me,
this will change everything,
the freeing of my open sexuality, my pussy,
perspective from the passenger’s seat,
watch me take the wheel,
dare me to provide the unbridled drive,
push you past what you’ve known previously,
forcibly, dramatically,
this is me,
naked, vulnerable,
sharing my fantasy for strangers to see,
allowing them to know me,
spotlight on honesty, dreams,
harness this energy,
run a world on the power of witnessing,
caressing, loving,
watch the way it changes the language you use,
brace yourself for this bright heat, energy,
disbelief, doubt this kind bravery exists,
to bare a body in synchronicity with empowerment,
undress your boundary of comfort,
toss aside the belief that you are not enough,
open, trusting the world will catch you,
cheer for you, holler that they want more,
that this was when you appeared most beautiful,
most authentic, most vulnerable,
this was a gift for all,
providing a ripple effect of power,
a belief that we can do more,
push the boundaries even further,
fight for what we want even harder,
settle for nothing less than authenticity,
embracing slowly,
the realization that you are already perfect,
already accomplished,
already enough,
you just had to show up.

You Don’t Look Like a Smoker

What does a Smoker look like? Dishevelled and destroyed by life? What tipped you off that I wasn’t? Or that I would be offended by such an assumption? What makes you think that it is wrong? Is it the cough that resonates down the hall? Or the color of a smoker’s work collar? What is it that bothers you? The fact that I can choose to kill myself slowly? Or the reasons that drive this habit of escaping? What could you have meant with that statement? I don’t look like someone who knows hard work? I am not someone who would be so irresponsible? I don’t look like a low grade human? What do you assume I require for functioning? What is my assumed form of release? Could I be a singer? A dancer? An artist that refrains from temptations that could destroy me? Or do I fit in another place? An office with no windows? A boardroom filled with suits? An exclusive gathering of only what is prescribed as good? What is the vision you have for my future? To live long and prosper? To experience the dreams that others always wanted? To be someone who is defined as successful? To use my life for so much more than another smoke on the back porch? What do you see that I can’t? Or are my secrets too well kept? Am I lying to myself with this image? Should I have corrected your assumption? Should I have claimed that I am dirty and broken? Should I have shared a smoke with you instead? Allowed you in? Showed how I am struggling? What makes you assume that I am different? That I have higher standards for living? What makes you think that I am naturally complete? Or am I assuming that this trait means more to you than it does to me? Do I only see value in the habits that destroy me? Do I only focus on the traits that I am told need changing? Who is my smoking for? You or the thoughts that I have to think over? Me or the image that is projected on this habit? To damage my health or find a release for all that I’ve felt? Who is it serving? Me or the rest of society? Am I finding release or captivity? Denial or severity? What am I doing? Do you know me? Can you change me? What would make me complete? Do you have the answer? Can you know better? Can you tell me that I will be successful? That this life is worth living longer? That if I put down the smoke I could pick up a life worth exploring? What makes you so certain? Or are you bluffing? Is this a distraction technique? Where you only seeking to flatter me? It is not working.