Reading: The Female Man
Watching: Some hockey game
Playing: with myself
Eating: her candy pussy
Drinking: Sprite
No matter how far away I run, I am always in the same place as soon as I turn the corner.
Sunday, February 28, 2010
run
Listening to:No regrets-Aesop Rock
Reading: The Female Man
Watching: Some hockey game
Playing: with myself
Eating: her candy pussy
Drinking: Sprite
No matter how far away I run, I am always in the same place as soon as I turn the corner.
Reading: The Female Man
Watching: Some hockey game
Playing: with myself
Eating: her candy pussy
Drinking: Sprite
No matter how far away I run, I am always in the same place as soon as I turn the corner.
a letter
Dear Mom,
I notice more everyday that I act like you. That my habits are just like yours. That for years I ran around anywhere and everywhere trying to escape the fact that I would turn out just like you. All of the destruction I have caused to myself for years is strongly correlated to the ways in which you raised me. I think that the biggest reason why you get so worried about me is because you know this about me.
I am you and you are a ball of misery. 44 years of miserable times, 4 children later, 1 unaffectionate husband afterwards here you are, going to church burying your face in your praying hands as if it could help to scream at God. Mom, years ago, a long time ago when you were around my age you had a hope that things could get better.
The changes that would come between Mexico and California would change the world maybe... maybe it would change the teary times to good times and beautiful times. And they can be sometimes. All of your girls are growing up hiding in their rooms from you, trying not to be like you but you are everything, you are everywhere. No matter where I turn to escape you I find your face behind every one of my actions.
I love you like crazy. I'm your daughter and you gave up so much to keep me safe. But you didn't realize that I was only in danger of you. I just wanted to tell you happy birthday and I'm never going back home.
Love,
Rosy
I notice more everyday that I act like you. That my habits are just like yours. That for years I ran around anywhere and everywhere trying to escape the fact that I would turn out just like you. All of the destruction I have caused to myself for years is strongly correlated to the ways in which you raised me. I think that the biggest reason why you get so worried about me is because you know this about me.
I am you and you are a ball of misery. 44 years of miserable times, 4 children later, 1 unaffectionate husband afterwards here you are, going to church burying your face in your praying hands as if it could help to scream at God. Mom, years ago, a long time ago when you were around my age you had a hope that things could get better.
The changes that would come between Mexico and California would change the world maybe... maybe it would change the teary times to good times and beautiful times. And they can be sometimes. All of your girls are growing up hiding in their rooms from you, trying not to be like you but you are everything, you are everywhere. No matter where I turn to escape you I find your face behind every one of my actions.
I love you like crazy. I'm your daughter and you gave up so much to keep me safe. But you didn't realize that I was only in danger of you. I just wanted to tell you happy birthday and I'm never going back home.
Love,
Rosy
Thursday, February 25, 2010
looking for Baby
I was always looking for Baby in the wrong places, the wrong hearts
I knew she had grown cold without me
I could feel her chilled insides becoming icy blue
And so Baby looked at me through every woman I found on the streets
those were the women I looked into.
Women with cold hearts dripping icicles.
Eyez that made me transparent, unimportant.
Lips that numbed my throat, caused a drip of bitter emptiness.
Baby called to me from every female's voice
and I search the country for her.
The entire country was combed through.
In every state, I knew eventually I would find her
but not without the blood spilt
not without loving the wrong one first.
And I loved them all as I would have Baby
because it could have been her,
she could have been the one to love me
the one I was searching into the high heavens for,
I went searching into the low into the pits of hell.
I figured she was an angel fallen.
Women baring their stories and lovers across their breast,
ink clots in their blood, headaches in their brains.
Women covered in powder and white smoke,
breathing in poisons, my introduction to escapism
Women with deceiving eyez pregnant with guilt
hands with calluses of hard labor,
alcohol lining their organs
hangovers permanently staining their bed sheets
And I loved them all as I would have Baby.
Looking for her in all of them.
ex convicts, insomniacs, bipolar disorders disrupting their peaceful moments
women with grimy herstories
so many stories behind brown eyez
bad blood, beautiful faces
Baby wasn't there, just an illusion
a dilution of mine,
I was just trying to find her
in all those cold eyez
all those hard hands
all those damaged women.
And then I found her.
Baby.
Her peaceful grin spoiled by melancholy;
bipolar tendencies not aimed to kill anyone
No Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde.
Eyez that saw right into me,
infiltrate my thought processes
I am her Girl, Interrupted.
She was every woman I had tried to find her in.
She was an angel fallen,
no impersonation;
her wings were not drawn in with pencil
Her heart hung icicles like decoration
until I came to melt them
make them glow red.
She loved me, no questions or
horror scenes to prove it.
And that's how I knew.
that she was Baby.
And everyone else was just a by passer.
I knew she had grown cold without me
I could feel her chilled insides becoming icy blue
And so Baby looked at me through every woman I found on the streets
those were the women I looked into.
Women with cold hearts dripping icicles.
Eyez that made me transparent, unimportant.
Lips that numbed my throat, caused a drip of bitter emptiness.
Baby called to me from every female's voice
and I search the country for her.
The entire country was combed through.
In every state, I knew eventually I would find her
but not without the blood spilt
not without loving the wrong one first.
And I loved them all as I would have Baby
because it could have been her,
she could have been the one to love me
the one I was searching into the high heavens for,
I went searching into the low into the pits of hell.
I figured she was an angel fallen.
Women baring their stories and lovers across their breast,
ink clots in their blood, headaches in their brains.
Women covered in powder and white smoke,
breathing in poisons, my introduction to escapism
Women with deceiving eyez pregnant with guilt
hands with calluses of hard labor,
alcohol lining their organs
hangovers permanently staining their bed sheets
And I loved them all as I would have Baby.
Looking for her in all of them.
ex convicts, insomniacs, bipolar disorders disrupting their peaceful moments
women with grimy herstories
so many stories behind brown eyez
bad blood, beautiful faces
Baby wasn't there, just an illusion
a dilution of mine,
I was just trying to find her
in all those cold eyez
all those hard hands
all those damaged women.
And then I found her.
Baby.
Her peaceful grin spoiled by melancholy;
bipolar tendencies not aimed to kill anyone
No Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde.
Eyez that saw right into me,
infiltrate my thought processes
I am her Girl, Interrupted.
She was every woman I had tried to find her in.
She was an angel fallen,
no impersonation;
her wings were not drawn in with pencil
Her heart hung icicles like decoration
until I came to melt them
make them glow red.
She loved me, no questions or
horror scenes to prove it.
And that's how I knew.
that she was Baby.
And everyone else was just a by passer.
Writer's Block
I've been rambling. I've been pacing. I've been thinking and rethinking this book of mine. Where do I begin a story like mine where everything blurs together? Where so much of the story was developed in the beginning but it's too bloody to let out. My secrets are inside my younger years. And so much as I know that I'm still young I feel as though the hardest struggle happened when I was a baby. When I was trapped between child and adult.
The habits I developed then still follow me heavily influencing the people I love and the people who love me. My self destruction is kept as hidden as possible because in a sense, a writer loves to write about her pain. A writer loves to cause the drama and destruction for the feeling, for the story. It's a little sick actually. How can someone love wallowing in the darkness so much that you swim in it, eat it, hold it like a baby when really its the monster that's damaging your insides, internal bleeding.
Maybe all writers who are also artists are just cursed people. And I am forever cursed to love this demon inside my heart, forever sing it to sleep. Who knows if this book will ever become a reality. There is so much of the story I want kept to myself. So much of it is too raw for me to want to spill onto the world. My struggle was too private and now, to reveal all of my secrets, I guess maybe I'm afraid of what life could be without them.
The habits I developed then still follow me heavily influencing the people I love and the people who love me. My self destruction is kept as hidden as possible because in a sense, a writer loves to write about her pain. A writer loves to cause the drama and destruction for the feeling, for the story. It's a little sick actually. How can someone love wallowing in the darkness so much that you swim in it, eat it, hold it like a baby when really its the monster that's damaging your insides, internal bleeding.
Maybe all writers who are also artists are just cursed people. And I am forever cursed to love this demon inside my heart, forever sing it to sleep. Who knows if this book will ever become a reality. There is so much of the story I want kept to myself. So much of it is too raw for me to want to spill onto the world. My struggle was too private and now, to reveal all of my secrets, I guess maybe I'm afraid of what life could be without them.
Monday, February 22, 2010
insecurities always follow me
clawing my way to the surface, removing flesh from bone, stripped of reason
sanity is hiding underneath my bed, i'm crawling towards the daylight
everlasting mysteries that the sun holds dear
shake me alive with fear that I might disappear like warm water evaporating
dropping from the clouds like rain a billion miles from here
and then landing in some foreign land where I dont understand the language
dont have the time written on my hand or wrist
still i persist to claw my way past it,
each second twists behind my back
burned onto my muscles, permenant scars of misery
that dont fade into the mintues
i'm scared when you dream.
maybe youll wake up and realize I'm not good enough to be yours.
insecurities always follow me for years after the worst has past.
I'm sorry you deal with all my baggage.
Tears are worthless you know.
It's just about actions
words dont mean anything if there's nothing to stand firm upon
stand tall enough to look down at the little people like ants from
im missing the destruction, not letting myself sip into a coma of despair
not while you're here, sleeping.
I promise not to slip away while youre watching.
just rest. I wont be too far, I promise.
I wont crawl away into the darkness.
I want to taste it. hold it like a child.
carry it in my womb growing
developing fingers and toes, a life outside of my own.
but i wont.
i promised i wouldnt right?
and a promise is a promise.
Babe. Wake up.
If I stay alone in my own head too long this is what happens.
sanity is hiding underneath my bed, i'm crawling towards the daylight
everlasting mysteries that the sun holds dear
shake me alive with fear that I might disappear like warm water evaporating
dropping from the clouds like rain a billion miles from here
and then landing in some foreign land where I dont understand the language
dont have the time written on my hand or wrist
still i persist to claw my way past it,
each second twists behind my back
burned onto my muscles, permenant scars of misery
that dont fade into the mintues
i'm scared when you dream.
maybe youll wake up and realize I'm not good enough to be yours.
insecurities always follow me for years after the worst has past.
I'm sorry you deal with all my baggage.
Tears are worthless you know.
It's just about actions
words dont mean anything if there's nothing to stand firm upon
stand tall enough to look down at the little people like ants from
im missing the destruction, not letting myself sip into a coma of despair
not while you're here, sleeping.
I promise not to slip away while youre watching.
just rest. I wont be too far, I promise.
I wont crawl away into the darkness.
I want to taste it. hold it like a child.
carry it in my womb growing
developing fingers and toes, a life outside of my own.
but i wont.
i promised i wouldnt right?
and a promise is a promise.
Babe. Wake up.
If I stay alone in my own head too long this is what happens.
Saturday, February 13, 2010
The first page
I speak best through my fingers
with each stroke of my pen
I find a louder voice on paper.
I am in pieces on stage,
billions of words skipping inside my brain.
My voice isn't strong enough to hold their gravity.
I get twisted tongues when I try to verbalize those letters
poetry can speak in volumes when its made real
seen along the walls of Jalisco, Mexico
in Oakland,
San Francisco
they are embedded in braille behind my eyelids
seeing words everywhere,
shouting in their silence.
A bed of 26 letters quaking in my throat,
feet pacing,
Tonight my pen cannot give me a voice.
muted whispers fall to my toes,
words heavy enough only for paper.
That poetry is hidden in the creases of my chicana curves
I can't mumble a sound,
my body temperature rising
as the alphabet bleeds at my hairline,
dripping with anticipation,
those words arrive only for the pages.
I stand alone, tongue tied down
I can see every face in the crowd
each letter stuck on the roof of my mouth
every syllable breaking out from my throat
cannot be understood,
all 26 lost between heaven and earth.
So many words that want attention;
want to be read,
but cannot be spoken,
that literature is engraved in stone
my mouth is glued shut
and so then I run.
with each stroke of my pen
I find a louder voice on paper.
I am in pieces on stage,
billions of words skipping inside my brain.
My voice isn't strong enough to hold their gravity.
I get twisted tongues when I try to verbalize those letters
poetry can speak in volumes when its made real
seen along the walls of Jalisco, Mexico
in Oakland,
San Francisco
they are embedded in braille behind my eyelids
seeing words everywhere,
shouting in their silence.
A bed of 26 letters quaking in my throat,
feet pacing,
Tonight my pen cannot give me a voice.
muted whispers fall to my toes,
words heavy enough only for paper.
That poetry is hidden in the creases of my chicana curves
I can't mumble a sound,
my body temperature rising
as the alphabet bleeds at my hairline,
dripping with anticipation,
those words arrive only for the pages.
I stand alone, tongue tied down
I can see every face in the crowd
each letter stuck on the roof of my mouth
every syllable breaking out from my throat
cannot be understood,
all 26 lost between heaven and earth.
So many words that want attention;
want to be read,
but cannot be spoken,
that literature is engraved in stone
my mouth is glued shut
and so then I run.
Friday, February 5, 2010
college
College M Center is running me around like a goddamn toy. I'm so tired of running around I just want my shit done for the following semester. I swear I dunno what I'll do with myself if I don't go to school next semester. I need this shit done asap. I dunno what I'm doing with myself.
Thursday, February 4, 2010
the city
" Feb. 3, 2010
I came all this way into a city to draw a crooked tree.
I'm sitting here watching people for my stories. Manipulating them to mean something to me. I hear the sax. He plays here all the time.
Tall strangers, short men with glasses, women covered in long coats, green pants, yellow shoes, others in high heels. Everyone of them counting steps into the next task in their day, pass the tree with crooked branches.
All the trees here grow crooked--because of the wind.
The people are so distracted, most are untouched by the music. Going about their day, in a hurry to where?
All of the lights are turning on, the buildings are alive!
And the people rush along, pushing and shoving time to hold on.
Got somewhere to go, somewhere
anywhere to go to
I keep looking for my next task, next step
I am in no hurry.
I should keep walking
and so I get up and leave the crooked tree and the music behind in yesterday's news.
I'm headed home now. I made no friends. Everyone is still a stranger.
bus, however..."
I came all this way into a city to draw a crooked tree.
I'm sitting here watching people for my stories. Manipulating them to mean something to me. I hear the sax. He plays here all the time.
Tall strangers, short men with glasses, women covered in long coats, green pants, yellow shoes, others in high heels. Everyone of them counting steps into the next task in their day, pass the tree with crooked branches.
All the trees here grow crooked--because of the wind.
The people are so distracted, most are untouched by the music. Going about their day, in a hurry to where?
All of the lights are turning on, the buildings are alive!
And the people rush along, pushing and shoving time to hold on.
Got somewhere to go, somewhere
anywhere to go to
I keep looking for my next task, next step
I am in no hurry.
I should keep walking
and so I get up and leave the crooked tree and the music behind in yesterday's news.
I'm headed home now. I made no friends. Everyone is still a stranger.
bus, however..."
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
Monday, February 1, 2010
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About Me
- Guerrilla Libre
- This is literally my internet notebook. My thoughts at the moment, the words that come straight from my brain to my fingertips tapping on the keyboard to you.