#writersbloque

[romanmillz]

New views+my new attitude =new material

[mirrorworld12]

See for what it is and not what it was. Many homes are museums and many museums are home now -Ayana Arora

[christiancurrywritten]

I wish I were crazy about you

I really do

Instead I am broken

My heart is broken in two

I don’t yearn for you

Like lovers are supposed to

Is there something wrong with me?

I understand I’m not who you want me to be

God damnit...

I’m so sorry

[chuckakot]

In every breath and every word, I feel like you are the most wonderful girl, let me hold you closer to me, I just want to fall in love with you, this is our time, run with me, and we'll disappear.

Chuck Akot

[kalimutana]

She's so afraid to fall in love again. Not because of heartbreaks. But it is because of the time and effort that it'll be wasting again for the wrong person she have been hoping to be her last.

-Judd Maude

[antonioburke]

Shame

Shame has been on my mind a lot, lately. Where does it come from? Is it inherited or developed? Inferiority and shame seem to go hand in hand as they are both brought on by our projection of ourselves compared to others. For me there is a big difference between the two, however. Inferiority encompasses a belief we are inherently lesser than others while shame is what we feel when we're dealt a bad hand. The ashamed are able to conclude that their circumstances are not the result of their own actions and thus resent those with the Full House or Royal Flush. Inferiority may have plagued me at select times in the past but I’ve felt shame practically all of my life.  

I suppose this negative thinking combined with my selective muteness from the age of 5 until my early twenties are common symptoms of a traumatic childhood. It's understandable that a child constantly in the presence of danger would learn to avoid it by avoiding people.  

My most traumatic memory is of my brother, sister, and I hiding in the closet of our room while my mother was being beaten by her boyfriend Calvin. This was practically a normal event in our household; men and women came before and did the same thing.  

Kerline was a big, black Haitian-American lesbian my mom became romantically involved with. She lived with us for a few years with her son Randy. Kerline could be fairly jovial and quite interesting. She would listen to Bob Marley vinyl records every Sunday morning and take us to San Francisco to buy mangoes from street vendors. She made us celebrate Kwanzaa and wore Nefertiti earrings.  Despite what one may think she was apparently pretty Catholic. Attending Mass and Sunday school at St. Joseph's was a regular event and reading the picture bible every night was mandatory. Underneath the eclectic and free-spirited demeanor there was a sadism she could only satisfy by striking my mother or her son. Kerline also had the peculiar hobby of lining up the male children every school night before “Mommy Monique” arrived home and whipping us with a belt as we bent down bare-bottomed. Every night on clockwork for no reason or occasion. To a certain extent, her discipline had benefits.  Neither my siblings or I (or Randy) ever talked back at home or in class. The “study hall” Kerline presided over at our kitchen table on the weekends and in the summers did translate to success in the classroom. There were drawbacks; I was kicked out of Orchestra because I could not stop making flinching motions as if someone were about to hit me whenever the instructor called my name. Still, Kerline's most important contribution came on those violent nights when she would condition us for the years to come.

We were all born and raised on Berkeley's "black” South side but were living in a public housing condominium on the quaint North side. I can only imagine what the medium-income level of our neighborhood was but trust that the inhabitants of our complex were the only black, brown, or poor residents in the immediate area. Maybe it's the city's liberal brainwashing or the fact that the local school bussed in children of color from all corners of the city, but I never noticed that the only other black kids in our area were the Cokes brothers from our housing project or questioned how my mom could afford to live on this side of town working part-time in a department store.  

This afternoon with Calvin the usual soundtrack of my mother's whimpering and sobbing has been replaced with screams and begging interjected with his threats to "snap her neck". I'm not sure if you've ever had the opportunity to hear a woman being battered in person but there is almost a certain rhythm that eavesdroppers become very accustomed to. First there's the arguing. At this point there may be some back and forth that keeps up the facade that the woman still has control of her body or fate. There's increasingly loud discussion about whatever today's conflict may be as the male becomes noticeably more irritated and begins to drown out the conversation. The irritation begins to manifest in physical ways; he may break a vase or punch a wall. Now that the facade is over the pleading begins, her voice will go from appeasing to panicky to desperate until it finally settles on a simple cry as she realizes there's nothing she can do. Now there's only one item to take care of before the actual act begins and it's an important one. The music. Or more precisely, the radio. Screams, wails, and feet stomping are understandably alarming and noise mitigation measures must be taken for the sake of the neighbors. Usually this is less of a cover-up than a simple act of courtesy. Anybody that's lived in a thin-walled apartment complex that’s not in the greatest part of town knows what it means when the neighbor with the girlfriend that lives down the hall has talk radio blasting full volume at 3:00 in the morning even though he never listens to talk radio. This is a nuisance but less disturbing than what they know is underneath.

I don't remember what Calvin turned on this day, KQED, The Quiet Storm, Wild 107; the score is set and it’s time to begin. The sound of a hand slapping a face and a body dropping to the floor. Screams muffled by a hand covering a face turn into muffled moans as the blows keep pouring down. Of course, there's still the occasional talking. Calvin asks why she made him do this. She whispers gargled apologies that are coded pleas to spare her life. The lulls are the worst moments. The parts where all of the sounds cease and we’re in the closet wondering if Calvin made good on his promise to snap our mother's neck. What should we do? Would we have heard it, if he did? Would it make a sound? Knowing we should not stick around to find out, my siblings and I exit the house.  

We were standing on the sidewalk for a short while when our mother emerged screaming for help with Calvin chasing her down the porch. He catches up, grabs on to her, then proceeds to slap her in the face while pulling her hair and muttering curses. Her sundress begins to tear and her breasts become completely exposed as he beats her in the street during a sunny Sunday afternoon in North Berkeley. Our fellow public housing beneficiaries, the "indigenous" neighbors whose tax dollars fund our dwellings, the patrons across the street at Fat Apple Bakery; everyone is witness as two white neighbors rush in and attempt to pull Calvin off.  My mother is in the middle of Rose Street half bare when a lady in a minivan pulls up and summons us to get in.

The four of us are crammed into the backseat of the Good Samaritan's car as she drives us to the police station downtown. She is a white lady with short-black hair that is very Courtney Cox mid-1990s, looks to be in her 40s. It would be hard to describe her after all of these years, all I can say is that she is very Berkeley. That may not mean anything to you unless you grew up in the Bay Area but it is an excellent adjective. I could see her operating one of the tie-dye stations along Telegraph Avenue on the weekends or volunteering at the Edible Garden at Martin Luther King Middle School. The good-natured, bleeding-heart-liberal with a sense of civic responsibility that is so typical of Berkeley. The people I would come to loathe and love simultaneously as the years go by, though that is a story for another day.

I hadn't quite noticed her through all the earlier commotion, but the lady asks her daughter in the passenger seat to hand my mother a white t-shirt and my siblings and I some snacks. She does this and introduces herself with pleasant greetings. She is around my age with dirty blonde hair and seems very precocious (again, very Berkeley) and talkative. Really talkative. One of the first things I notice is how she has no hesitation at all speaking so freely to my mother, an adult. Sure, she was polite. Sure, we probably had an unnatural fear of adults and strangers at this point and understandably so all things considered. Children should be seen and not heard. It seems old-fashioned but this is basically how our family unit operated anytime we were around adults we did not know well. Do not talk out of turn. Do not ask any questions. Do not ask for or accept anything, especially food. We could all be stuck in the forest for three days without food or water only to come upon  a cabin occupied by friendly strangers in the midst of preparations for a gigantic feast. Even touching a utensil or breadstick may earn you a merciless pinch on the cheek later. I couldn't help but wonder if she would have felt that comfortable had my mom not been half naked and bruised in her backseat.

I can recall exchanging maybe a few words with her. We live only a few blocks away from my school but I do not recognize her. The daughter seems genuine as she darts questions to the backseat about school and hobbies and absurdly seems to have memorized our names by now. As the ride goes on, I start to notice the relatively dirty and tacky clothing my brother, sister, and I rushed out of the house wearing. My mother sits in the middle of the backseat with the oversized white t-shirt and her hair pointing in all directions, undoubtedly with small patches missing at this point.

I don’t think anybody at school has ever been as nice to me as this dirty-blond haired girl is being right now. Maybe she is just overly friendly?

This is one of the first moments I can recall feeling shame. I knew then we were being pitied. This girl, she may be my age. She may even go to my school. She is not my peer. I would never be able to look her in the eyes again without recalling this moment and this day. I was dealt a bad hand.

[1fyouonlyknew]

September

[killa-j1980-blog]

The strength

I know its been hard

Sometimes life deals tough cards

But you're still in the game

Never fold

Stand with strength

As sure as God is his name

There will be a way

Might not see it today

The pain blinds your vision

But there is a bigger mission

This is for all who feel like life has threw a curve ball

Still you gotta swing

If you need help

I'll assist you find the strength

[gracefulsavageheart]

How do you do it Walk around everyday As if nothing ever happened As if we never shared good times Laughs Dances You were my best friend My everything And you just walked out of my life Like I was the door Holding you in For years and years Nothing is more disappointing Then loosing both A friend and a lover

- Everyday Poetry x Me

[writersofwonderland]

the real meaning of love

She was afraid if she fell too far that faint smell would disappear forever. The smell she has held on to for so long, and in a moment it could all be gone. So she grabbed his arms and pulled him closer drawing in a new smell she had grown to love. The fear slowly fading away now, as the rush of blood flowed to her heart now beating 100 times faster in the best way possible. She had said the words many times before but she had never meant it more than she did in that moment. “I love you” she whispered so happily.

by ivy🍂

[smutbangtan]

To the FF writers

How do you motivate yourself to write? I have the whole story in my head but I can’t put it on paper 📝

[in-my-thinking]

Writer's Block

I had a thought Came to nought Started a poem Where’s it going Can I make I rhyme Line after line Need to think Get some words in ink Time for Friday tipple Help from a triple Aim for intoxication To ease my frustration Perhaps after gin & tonic I’ll feel less moronic Nice bottle of red wine Then I’ll be just fine But I suspect I’ll crash After writing more trash In my chair fall asleep Today’s words I’ll keep All to myself In note books on that shelf It’s where they all sit My poems of shit The volumes are numerous But don’t you get curious I wouldn’t even dare Those to share Gotta keep my reputation For perfect narration Maybe the morning Will be more inspiring But tonight it’s a shock Total writers block

[mirrorworld12]

It was like a mirror fell and I found myself on the floor scattered in a thousand pieces.

None of the pieces seemed to be mine, that's when I realize I forgot to be mine for the whole of my life.

I didn't talk for a second to myself and finished all my words on people who were meant to be gone.

You see that's what we all do, we love the walls in the hope to be home.

We pick the pieces that don't fit in hope to be whole.

We put our hopes in things that don't matter at all.

Creature of hearts controlled by minds so fragile, that's why all we feel is pain and forget to shine.

How do I make it alright, so many mirrors will fall at times?

I decided not to pick myself back

There is nothing that I lack.

All I need can be made out of me,

I have got all the galaxies and stars.

The only words I have in my heart

If a mirror fell and I break again,

Let it be pieces of myself and myself not of someone I found on my way.

............................................................

-Ayana Arora

Pic -@ellemaywatson

..........................................................

[christiancurrywritten]

Poetry 36

"I can't sleep tonight, I'm only tossing and turning in the moonlight, I know if I sleep I'll dream of you, and the truth be told, I don't want to."

[chuckakot]

A word is not a word, but a word is a seed internalized, in my mind spurt its bud, a seed will grow and expand in the light of thinking. A word will be words, transformed into orders and set of rules, affixed are the thoughts imagined. For words are the product of the heart, gradually in syllalibication to the purpose of creating the medium in speech. And in discourse, the fragments become a phrase in tune, to connect each melody and ideas, free of understanding and which then edify, in writing, the modest representation of semantics blossom to a flowerful array of concrete sentences.

Chuck Akot

[kalimutana]

"Looking into my eyes doesn't mean you really know how I really feel. Sometimes, not just lips can do the smiling, but eyes can do the same too."

-Judd Maude