This past summer has been one of the most pivotal times in my 20 years of existence. It is during times like that, so pivotal and monumental, that you would think I’d be publishing blog post after blog post. But the part of my brain that thinks in blog titles and in imaginative detail has remained dormant these past few months, leaving all of you with nothing to read. Continue reading “Under Construction”
To a Life I Obligate
My soul slashed, yet,
pain not the logic be.
But if to scratch an itch
deep beneath my surface.
If pain, the side effect of enlightenment-
enlightenment the itch be scratched-
then Lord will it.
Grip thy knife. Continue reading “Original Poetry: To a Life I Obligate”
Facebook is filled with links to articles that talk about love and relationships. Oftentimes, these articles are in the form of checklists. “If it’s real love then your relationship has these 10 things”. “If he really loves you then he will do these 15 things”. “Your relationship will fail if you say these 9 things”. Continue reading “My Message of Love”
My friend recently shared some of her poetry with me and I really wanted to share it with you all!! (After her permission)
Passion for everything,
Comes at a price.
Every part of life either makes me fell
So overjoyed I think my heart will burst from my chest,
Or so angry that I fear my fist swill one day
Find a victim. Continue reading “Guest Poetry: Death By Passion”
The train that runs though Dahlia and Grey Avenue toots its whistle in-between the rhythmic dripping of the melting icicles above my window pain as the morning sun starts to rise. I lie awake, I have been for while, listening to the whispers of the parents in the family as they put the finishing touches on the presents under the tree. Every once in while, someone bumps into an ornament and you can hear them aggressively whisper “shit”. My little cousin still believes in santa and that is not to be ruined this christmas by the sudden sound of a braking bulb. Continue reading “Christmas for “Intuitives””
I might be afraid of my own voice. Of any and all emotion that may live in the words that I have to say, to whisper, or to scream. With each thing I wish to write, I feel I need approval of its content. Is my opinion ok? Am I allowed to feel this way? Would people want to read this? What socially constructed schema would I be placed into if I were to write this? With any and all possible answers given I do not feel any better or any freer to write. This is because the critic that I am so terrified of does not live in the outside world among my friends, family, or even enemies. I will not bump into the critic on the street or on the way to class. I will however, bump into this critic at night when I close my eyes to sleep, when I open my leather bound journal to write or even when I sit down at the dinner table to eat. “This is why he’s not your friend anymore, Liv”. “This is why that person looked at you so funny”. “Put the pen down Liv, you have nothing to write about”.
But I do, I have so much to write about. I am 19 years old and somehow I have been given this insight. Some people would not believe the things I have been through or how many times I’ve had to step up to the plate and be 25 or even 30 years of age in nature. For this the critic tells me I should be bitter. For this the critic tells me that the world owes me something and that I should live in self pity. But for this, I am the most grateful. Because of my experiences, and my experiences only, my heart is full. And not of superficial loves but of loves so deep and permanent that I have no choice but to believe my heart ran out of room and there are parts of me swimming in rivers, floating in the clouds and even living among the moon and the stars. It is only loves like that, that can never be taken away from you.
However, I often find myself battling a severe an unrelenting anger. The kind where you think that your heart might beat right out of your chest.Thats how I tend to deal with any emotion, really. Anger. I remember one instance where I was outside, trying to walk off my desire to punch a hole in the wall, and an acorn fell from a tree and landed on my head. I then proceeded to pick up said acorn and chuck it over a house all while making this aggressive yell/grunt noise. I would have loved to have been a neighbor looking out my window to see some chick throwing an acorn over a house, grunting. A video would’ve been taken and posted to YouTube. But, on the flip side, the girl doing the throwing and the grunting (me) was exhausted from having to constantly ask the question “when will the universe stop shitting on me”.
There is one major thing that keeps me going whenever that question persists, which it has been lately. One day, I will be able to hold my future child in my arms when they are feeling lost and say to them, “Mommy’s confidence was shattered and she pieced it back together. Mommy’s ability to trust was beaten into the ground, and she dug it out. Mommy was terrified of her own voice and now it is her closest friend. I now share the wisdom of the rivers, the clouds, the stars and the moon. Mommy survived, and I promise, my child, you will too”.