About AimesBo

I stumbled upon writing and decided to wander with it...

Stop Complaining

Shut the fuck up with your upper to middle class bullshit.        Stop and look where you are.        You are surrounded by nice things, but what did you do to go about earning them?        Shut your mouth before you claim to be struggling.        How much have you already had to eat?        And who made you this feast?        Have you ever been threatened to spend a night on the street?        Your tent is used for camping, not living.        Your closet is full of clothing for fashion, not necessity.        Your dumpsters are used for trash, not scavenging.        You have the support of family.        You have money.        At times you don’t have to work for a living.        This is luxury.        Change the tone of how you speak.        The step towards poverty is shorter than you think.        There is less that separates you from the homeless population.        All it takes is one addiction.        One step in the wrong direction.        One downfall of your reputation.        Stumble and you might fall with the best of them.       Refuse to stay humble and you might lose your chance at working.        Nothing is beneath you when you haven’t eaten.        Nothing is too difficult when you don’t have a bed to sleep in.        Nothing is too far fetched when you have the luxury of dreaming.        This is reality.        This is why I continue working.        This is why I turn down no opportunity.        This is why I have to do work that is beneath me.        There is no slack. There is no back up.        There is only survival.        Since poverty can so easily destroy all of my progress.        I can so easily lose it.        So shut the fuck up with your claims and complaints.        And be thankful you are enough rich today to have middle class complaints.


These Heels Were Made For Wandering

Yesterday I wore the red heels. I stunned and impressed and was dressed for it appropriately, reviving a hibernating side of my personality, the side that operates confidently. I was dressed for the interview, I had my notes, my questions, and my conversation cues organized and ready to use. I was properly caffeinated, perfectly primped, and ready for this conversation. I was the picture of experience, work ethic, and mindful openness. I had this. The questions flowed and my answers were perfect. I deserved this. The man was impressed and interested. But half way through the interview, I realized I don’t want this. I don’t want to have the perfect answers. I don’t want to have to dress like this. I love these heels, but they were meant for a stage. I love this dress, but I did not want to iron it. I love the way I look, but it can be put to better use. I could be dancing or writing. I could be exploring. I could be living boldly. I am dressed to the nines for a nine to five. I am forcing a habit to seem alive. I am checking off points that I was told hold value, when I could be doing even more. I thought I wanted this. I thought I had this. I thought this was my opportunity, but my goals are changing. I want to live freely. I have to be paid money to live, but I am willing to change what I do to get it. I am looking to switch everything up. I want to throw out my closet and begin again. I wanted this interview to end, so that I could go back to living bohemian. No cubicle was meant for me. No office can support my individuality. No memo can summarize my dreams. I am changing. What I prepared half my life for now is no longer relevant. I could have never anticipated this. I should have changed my focus. I should have admitted that what I wanted out of life was different. I should have seen it. There was so much time I missed, when doing what others expected. But today I end it. Today I will turn down another success. Today I will continue searching for what I’ve always wanted. Today I will wear the read heels and never look back.

R(a)mble On

I am tired of the (I don’t know)s and the (woe is me)s I have am exhausted by my own nega(tivity) I am resisting the (counting on me)s and (I can do)ings They now have a hol(low) ring I am no longer listening to (me) There is the saying (you’re only as good) as your weakness making me excel at a you (can)t do this mentality I am tired of the words (I think) and (I’m trying) There is a phrase I keep rep(eat)ing I am not (worth)y or was it I am not (pick)y I must admit I was not (listen)ing Since these words and phrases are (grat)ing and I am still (wait)ing for some random k(night) to come and save me I want these solutions handed over or I will continue (to have and to hold) my own mind for ransom I will (dive deep) into a pool of sarcasm dripping (down the road) I have chosen to travel along (Rolling like a stone) I will prove to love no one and no(thing) I am building a foundation on (nega)tivity seeing how far it might (get me) I am (exhaust)ed with d(r)ead I am dragged down by depen(dance) I am (seeing red) Grabbing the (bull)shit by the horns I will (take it) no more This is my (chance) I lean in to g(r)asp another breath.

Eye Contact With Death

This was the second one of the evening,
wandering in on my shift,
looking so sure of themselves,
yet incredibly distant,
walking with a confidence that says they are used to being looked at.

It was more in the way they moved,
that tipped me off as to what work they do,
there was a look of abuse,
lingering in their eyes and resounding in their words,
tainting the beauty of their natural curves.

It was their soft spoken way with men,
countered by an aggressive connection with other women,
they opened up to me unknowingly,
describing why they came in to buy weed,
due to back pain and sore knees,
but that was obvious to see.

I know what line of work can inflict this kind of pain,
and what they were avoiding saying,
how they earned the money that I was now being paid,
I could see it in their face.

It was the dead look in their eyes,
which their heavy makeup only emphasized,
paired with the strength of their thighs,
and hunched over shoulders,
showing the pain of spinning around a pole.

It was the words that went unsaid,
and the singles I was paid in,
that confirmed what I was thinking.

And that’s when it hit me,
that I could be one of these women,
I could be paid for dancing,
I could be using my body to earn a living,
I could be dead inside while being told I’m sexy.

There is not much that separates me from them,
we are all women,
we are all working,
we are all struggling.

I once joked about stripping for a living,
but once I encountered the real thing,
it is something to be taken seriously,
because I am certain it would kill me.

A Reflection

Your projecting is annoying me
I am obviously struggling
but this problem is not solitary
you are in it with me
Your concern is genuine
but misplaced
I am doing okay
it is you who should be concerned about what you are doing today
I am working and changing routines
but you’ve never met this side of me
you don’t see what I have seen
I have been through this all before
I have worked harder
I have travelled farther
I have handle more
But this might be the first time you’ve failed
this might be your living version of Hell
and I might be there to help
if I am patient enough to see
that you are just projecting
You need concern expressed for you
and someone to check in on what you are doing
you need a best friend who follows through
I need to be this for you
Since you are obsessed with how I am progressing
I should have interest in you that I am expressing
Since you are constantly checking in with me
I need to be responding
Since you are still forgiving
I need to still be listening
This change is coming
for both you and me
we must prepare appropriately
I am braced and ready
and you are depending on me
It is time we exchanged roles once again
where you are closed off and I am open
leaning in and finding solutions
But I need to move on with changing
you are dragging me down with complacency
you are depending on living vicariously
Stop this
listen to me
I am alright
but you are struggling
you have to see that I am frustrated with you
not me
I am placing the blame and being mean
so that you will stop projecting your problems on me
I was born too empathetic
you are taking advantage of that
and I am exhausted
I’m sorry for what I said angrily
I’m sorry for putting it plainly
and I’m sorry for my lack of sensitivity
But I am still waiting for your apology
this blame is not all on me
you will not make me feel guilty
when I am being plagued with questions for you
not me
I do not appreciate your projecting
I am doing my best to respond patiently
I am waiting for you to see
that we both are practicing negativity

Null & Void

Where is the evidence of change in my life?
What can I point to that will enlighten my own mind?
Where is the proof that this was all worth my time?
Was this licence to live sold with a warranty?
If I break it can I return to the last version of me?
Where is my life long guarantee?
Or was that part sold separately?
Did the stork who delivered me steal my chances of winning?
Or was it my parents who were misleading?
What came first dissatisfaction or complacency?
What is the change I am seeking?
Was it supposed to happen over night?
What did my contract specify?
Were there twelve steps or nine?
Where is the addendum that clarified further?
What definitions should I refer to?
Are these terms unusual?
Should I trust the devil I am making this deal with?
Or am I selling my last right to live?
Who will be my witness?
Who can see through this language?
Who will help me fight for what I was promised?
Is there any legal backing behind it?
Or will I have to fight dirty?
What am I willing to do to get what is owed to me?
Or do I still owe something?
Where is the balance sheet?
What statistics are we working with?
What is the bias of my perception?
Is this contract still valid?
Or was it nullified with by my actions?
Did I even read the fine print?
Or did I close my eyes and sign it?
Was I that desperate?
Did I even look at other options?
Who sells these contracts to live?
And what is the advantage?
Can I get my money back?
Or was I on a payment plan?
 How much longer until I am released from the requirement of living?

Applying Me

My beauty routine is more
complicated than it seems, with layers of me
waiting to be applied, I know that this will take
time, but with the tools laid out before me I will become
a masterpiece, the toner is poised
and waiting, the creams are thick
to stick to me, the pencils are sharp
and ready, I am a blank canvas
for painting, but these brushes sting
when applied to my skin, these creams burn
when I allow them to sink in, this paint is too thick for me
to breathe through, I coat myself in an image
I have grown used to, one that conforms to perfection
I was taught to pursue, I paint on layers
of others, covering myself
until my individuality is
smothered, blending in my rough
edges, drawing over my flaws
and transgressions, I paint an image
of a different woman, one who is told
she is bold and beautiful, one who conforms
to what society is looking for, one who is painted
over, layers of deceit
misleading, the containers of this mask
depleting, I look in the mirror
and reconsider my routine, finally noticing
the bags under my eyes, recognizing the years
I tried to fit in, wanting to wipe my canvas
and begin again, but I do not know where to start
changing, should I get rid of the creams
or the negativity, the eye liner
or the depravity, the lipstick
or the anxiety, what can be added
to this blank canvas, what can be enhanced
with highlighting tactics, what masterpiece
am I striving to create, when there is so much
that is still blank, this is my opportunity
to change routine, this is my chance
to portray a different version of me, this masterpiece
will bare my soul, it will be
bold, it will not
conform, and it will be
beautiful in its most natural form.


This coffee tastes like dreams, tepid, but made strong, and slowly disappearing.        It feels like grease, coating my blood with manufactured energy, forcing me to continue working, suffocating my desire to sleep.        It works to relieve my coughing, sticking to routine, cigarettes, coffee, and thinking.        Washing everything down with my daily dose of caffeine, morning musing, and persistent dreaming.        This coffee holds hope, fuel, and a dose of reality.        As my cup drains I begin to think about my day, what I will say, who I will be, what I am doing.        I don’t want my morning to end, so I continue brewing instead, cup after cup of liquid courage, so I can address the thoughts building in my head.        Savoring each sip, I take everything in, wondering where my place is amongst it.        But as I sit musing, my cup is cooling, my liquid of life is limited, I eventually have to move on from the courage I am still building.        This cup is now half empty, or still half full, I have no sense of what I am shooting for.        I reheat it, refill again, cling to the very last drop of routine, hoping it might guide me, never wanting to be empty.        I am addicted to this coffee, this dreaming, this familiarity.        I once kicked my caffeine habit, I stopped relying on the perks of it, and I was a total bitch, lacking any sense of direction.        I need this routine, I rely upon the dreams I feed me, I crave this false sense of control over my morning, not allowing it to end as I pour cup after cup of coffee, delaying reality.

Mornings taste like hope, or panic, or daily practice, as I sip slowing on this liquid tactic.

I Hope

” I Hope You Dance”,
these were the words my father said to me,
at a time in my youth when I was actually listening,
when I took a moment to stop being a bitch and leaned in to the moment,
when what I thought it was just teenage angst torturing me,
I took a moment to be a daughter that needed influencing,
to live out her dreams,
to be bold with bravery,
to truly be living,
I took a moment to hear these words,
pilfered from a song that at the time I thought was uncool,
since a woman named Lee Ann was trying to tell me what to do,
but I took a moment to listen,
I took in my father’s love filled message,
and I’ve always done the best I can,
to dance,
to be free,
to live openly,
I went to the ocean,
I danced on the beach with all of my clothes on,
I flung myself into the wind that was testing me,
trying to throw me off balance,
but I resisted,
I listened,
I danced it off,
laughing as I tumble,
picking up my feet more as I stumble,
turning my fall into a release of my troubles,
and when I felt like a failure,
I turned to the words he once shared,
“I Hope You Never Lose Your Sense Of Wonder”,
telling me to push on even further,
“Whenever One Door Closes I Hope One More Opens”,
reminding me to keep hoping,
“And When You Get The Choice To Sit Out Or Dance,”
I know I will dance,
I know I can take these chances,
I know that he will forever watch over me,
guiding me towards who I am meant to be,
telling me to trust myself,
pushing me to live without regret,
this song now haunts me,
whispering his advice years after his passing,
reminding me of what I once promised,
that I will always choose to dance,
I will continue to take chances,
I will not take this life for granted,
he is forever reminding me,
forever guiding,
forever listening,
and forever missing,
the significance of his words increasing with his passing,
immortalizing what he once said to me,
taking it as an example of infinite wisdom,
knowing now that I needed to listen,
while not knowing that this song would outlive his existence.

Reviving Memories

There is a memory separating me from reality,
a thought that is disconnecting me from my surroundings,
an internal musing that will not allow me to sleep,
it is haunting,
until I think that I am finally healing,
that’s when it comes back to derail me,
distract me,
bring me back to depressing memories,
I strive to relive my PSTD,
doubting that it happened,
running through my memories out of habit,
flashing through scenes of a time that has passed,
the phone call,
the collapsing,
the blacking out of everything around me,
I am still sorting through these memories,
striving to pick out something that I was previously missing,
the tone in her voice,
the look of my mother,
where was my little sister,
trying to push past this so that I can remember the times before it,
my last phone call with him,
the tone I chose to speak with,
and the details of what we were discussing,
the paper in the printer at home,
the arrest of my brother,
 the last day that I can remember saying I love you,
or did I imagine those details,
time is fading the memory of what once had complete control of me,
it is slowly erasing what should have meant most to me,
the times that I did not remember to cling to closely,
instead I am distracted by the pain of it fading,
I regret blacking out everything,
I search through my memory desperately,
looking for a way to change what I’ve seen,
a father dying too early,
a mother estranged with worry,
a brother with destructive tendencies,
and a sister who I assisted with raising,
but these memories are winning,
they are what have become legacy,
the pain that we each experienced,
instead of the love that his children were raised with,
the destruction of life as we knew it,
instead of the laughter that we once shared with him,
the way our lives inevitably changed,
instead of the memory of the man I wish we could have saved.