Monthly Archives: September 2015

Create. Be. Enjoy: You

Be You

Be You

What is love?

Over the moon. Fun. Compelling. And More!

The hidden treasure that few

Understand the difference between

Love and Lover’s

Who are you

When you have

The power of two.

Are you yourself?

Or are you what he wants

Advice

rediscover why you fell in love with you.


This one only took me two hours and two magazines! I started cutting and the words seemed to choose themselves. This poem is about the relationships that I see in high schoolers or any relationship were one person conforms to what the other expects. Expectations, you can either set the bar low or high and they will met it if you expect them to. Why do people feel like they need to conform to society, to their peers, to their significant other?

People like to feel accepted. That they are one of the group, but are the best part of the group of course! People want to fit in, but stand out just enough to feel important. I get that. I’ve done that. And I am trying to discern when to or not to.

Our society and culture is all about the individual and how they are important. Yes, great! But that individual has to fit into the group of individuals. A group solely made for being singular. All about me in the this great big world of other amazing individuals and their Instagram posts.

But don’t get me wrong social media can be wonderful to spread worthy causes. But a while back remember the water dunking ALS Ice Bucket Challenge, everyone started doing it because celebrities were doing it. It became more about ‘Hey I did that!’ than the cause.

So what I am saying is that, you don’t need to conform to a group or idea or expectation because you think you need to or someone wants you to. Finding who you are and who you are meant to be is one of the hardest things, and you need don’t need a fad to stray you in the wrong direction.

But here is another thought, sometimes you don’t need to find who you are, but create it. You may look around and see everyone else has their niche. Their home, their friends, the echos of laughs at the lunch table. But you don’t. You begin to think, maybe this person that I am creating myself to be is wrong. Maybe I am wrong and they are right. Maybe I am the problem.

No! Sometimes before creating who you are, you need to create what you are. By creating what you are, determines who you are and who you will become.

Did you ever think about who started the groups that everyone always flocks to? Maybe they were the outcast and decided to do something about it and created what they are. The clique had to start somewhere.

Final big thoughts: Be you. Find or create you. Create what you are. Once you find or create that, live that. If people don’t like it, honor their choice. They choose who they are and maybe you don’t fit into that. People make choices that are right for them, not you and how it will make you feel. We don’t ever really think about that. That there is more lives and life choices than ‘me’.

General when we make choices, who do we make them for?

Us. Me. You. Because that is the first person that it will impact. Every time I pray, I pray that I will not only show and be a good witness to Christ, but I hope that my actions will have an impact. A good one I hope. I pray that I will not be self-centered that I miss how I affected someone. I pray that I will see their pain and be able to do something. And if I can’t at least I can show that I acknowledge that I see their pain and they feel noticed.

So to the people who ask other’s to change for them or because they think they have to. Your path, your choice, your life of who you are creating yourself to be, doesn’t fit everyone. People are different. Not everyone likes pineapple on their pizza! (I do).

Okay, I promise last time of me trying to wrap up. People make choices. People make choices for themselves, not you. Honestly, people normally don’t care how their actions affect you. Or they just don’t think about it. So give some people some slack, or more in Bible terms, show mercy, do not give judgement, but discern. You matter, but you don’t matter when people make their life choices for themselves. You matter when you make your life choices. You make you of who you want to be.

God created you to be you. Nothing more or less. God created you to be you and not what society wants you to be. Everything about you is perfect in your perfectly crazy life.

I’ll leave you with some lyrics from my favorite artist Jamie Grace’s Every Bit of Lovely:

Don’t you know that you’re God’s original work of art, yes you are
So don’t ever let them tell you that you’re less than wonderful
Cause you’re a one and only
You’re every little bit, every little bit of lovely
Have you seen a lightning storm?
And have you heard the oceans roar?
Have you seen a newborn baby smile?
Well, the same God who made all that, made you

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My Attempt on Found Poetry, Again

So yesterday, with seven magazines and an old book and the time of three hours on a rainy day, I made an attempt on found poetry, again. Found poetry is hard because you just want that one word, but  . . . you can’t have it! It drives a creator crazy! So below are pictures of my attempts and below them are the words. The black-out poetry is from John Jakes novel ‘The Rebels’ on pages, 63, 197, 200, and 255. For the black-out poetry, I have no idea what the poems even mean, but I had fun creating them. Enjoy!

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Be Conquers

“You must remember this

As time goes by

This is what unforgettable memories are made of

Passion

It starts with you.

The idea

Unique lifestyle

Conquers are different from other winners they spill over with energy

Passion inspires us all to take on the world

Make a difference

The people, the places, the beauty.

It’s like nothing you’ve ever experienced before

Winners demand the best

But

Conquers

are

the

Best.


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The Violent Blue Lightening

Flurry of courage stifled niceties of conscience. He attacked so rudely. Framed a lighting- glare startled him. He whipped is head around. Clamored to be recognized. He saw a ghostly image. Lank hair. Slack lips. Haunted blue eyes – Trembling, covered his face. He broke out in a cold sweat, nauseous. Leaned close, whispering: “Are you more violent?” Climbed, stumbled, turned an unsympathetic eye. Afraid. No. Nothing. He tried. He slipped. A lightening burst. He sprawled on hands and knees, delirious – And then, slammed up to strike his face. Eventually, familiar, somehow.


Perched on the Edge

Perched on the Edge

“Yes, I’m finally learning something about it. Not without a good deal of struggle, I must confess. I’m afraid I never concerned myself before -” Held back the rest of it. Horror of memory stain her eyes for an instant. Inadvertently trapped. Calm voice, “That’s turned out to be a blessing.” Again he faltered. To conceal, perched on the edge. Another awkward silence. Made a serious error in coming here. Too painful. The sweet torture served no purpose – the silence: impulsively. A shock vibrated through, and quickly.


The Air Had Somehow Invaded

The Air Had Somehow Invaded

Depths didn’t care to plumb – very uncomfortable depths – the hazy gray loomed in his mind. Pathetic state. The image dissolved into another. Had struck much too close to the truth. Whatever the causes, he was poisoned by a frequent, almost wholly uncontrollable desire to defy. To choose one road when knew another was the accepted way? Who was to blame? As if it mattered any longer! Or would change anything. And lost himself. Safe for a while from the reality of the world outside. It wasn’t long before his inner world was similarly deadened and remote. Thunder shook. Burst of lightening glared like infernal fire let up from the bowels of the earth, reverberating through the chamber. The air had somehow invaded.


The Chief Sin Was His

The Chief Sin Was His

These dreadful confrontations took pleasure in tormenting the old man, in revenge for the old man tormenting him. What in the name of God was wrong with him? Faults were mild in comparison, chief sin was his oppressive iniquity. Burned bright: risen like some demonic figure. Watched him. Was afire, venomous. Surely twist, despicable. So much hate from all of them? Understood how outrage continuing friction and violence, grueling, really couldn’t fault the people when the latter were far less desirable.

Part 3 of 3: The Color of Broccoli

The thing that I like about broccoli is that it makes a crunch sound. My broccoli is not cooked, never mushy. No, my broccoli is raw. It makes sound. I try to recall and I do not ever remember a sound that I did not make, that is why I am so surprised when my bed shifts.

My bed is this cushion in the corner of my room. It is built in to the floor. I have tried to move it, pick it up, rip it, nothing works. But now it is shifted. The left side of the bed is slowly moving upward; it  . . . opens.

There is a passage inside the bed. The passage is not numbness. It is the opposite. It is calm. It is mysterious. It is perfect.

What should I call it? What is a name that matches it affects. What is a name that is breathtaking? What is this color? It shrouds everything in questions. Shroud.

Then, out of the Shroud something soft appears. It’s color is more pure than the numbness but nothing like the Shroud. It is so soft, I want to touch it.

I reach, it swerves away. It says something. It makes it’s own sound. The noise I understand. “Oh no Selena, we are not playing that game again today. I am human, not an object you can touch because you think it’s pretty.”

No! This is new. This is exciting. This is something like broccoli. I do not like this Soft Thing. It pushes me away. I reach more. I touch the Soft Thing. It makes noise. The noise is like when I get cauliflower when I want broccoli and I can’t remember what I do.

Then I realize. I reached for the tallest part of the soft thing and that is where the noise comes from. That is where the ooze comes from. That is where the consistency like milk comes from. The soft thing is in . . . pain? Did I cause pain? Pain is when there is no one or nothing to share with. Pain is not good.

I try to touch the Soft Thing again to say that I regret making pain, but it pushes me away. It makes noise, “We do this everyday Selena! Can you just once make it easy on me?!”

Selena? I do not know what this word means. It was like the Soft Thing was directing it at me. What is Selena? Am I Selena?

“I really wish I didn’t have to do this everyday. I can’t imagine what you are thinking each morning.” Something sharp sticks into me. Something that makes me feel like I do when I want to lay on the bed. My mind clouds  . . .

The color of broccoli, it’s the most magical thing I have ever seen, or remember seeing. Its shades changing from one stem to another. The way how it is at first light in shade then slowly, flows darker then blossoms into little buds of beauteous broccoli. The shape and texture of broccoli may be close to that of cauliflower, but the color of broccoli . . . is glorious. Cauliflower is bland, numb, equal. Broccoli is vibrant, contrasting, transitioning shades. Today I have cauliflower. I wish it was broccoli.

I am afraid I’ll forget what I thought about, and just continue thinking the same thing over and over, and each time thinking that it is a new thought. I have all these questions, but I don’t know if I’ll forget them tomorrow. Has tomorrow come? Is today tomorrow? When will tomorrow come? Time is infinite. Here. I don’t know if I’ve spent days here. Maybe weeks. Could even be years. Or maybe all this is between my alarm and my five minute snooze button. Time is all I have. But is time infinite in my five minute snooze?

Living in the Cracks of Life

Life

Oh, how it grows

Plants shoot up in the wildest places

Side of rocks

Desert

Arctic

In cracks of cement

If there is a seed

there is a way

The plants will find water

They will reach sunlight

They will survive

But then,

Why is it

that a rose bush

given all the care

water

sunlight

good soil

nourishment

dies?

Everything the other plant doesn’t

have, it does

How can one have everything

but lose the battle of life?

Bryce 4

Ah, but that is not only with plants

Humans, too

Growing up on the streets Harlem

In poverty of Africa

Refugees from Syria

They have the will to survive

Not only that, but they aspire to thrive

Sometimes

the will to live

is a greater proponent

in thriving

than the ability to survive

So many of us

take the ability

to live

to read

to eat

to speak

to have a home

for granted

And it’s just random

You are born

and some are born into a good family

a good life

a chance of good education

a chance of having a good future

and the other’s don’t.

They have to fight

to even survive

Their will power is amazing

But then some of the humans

who have everything

plummet

They fall hard

They are given all the opportunities

but turn to ‘unsmart’ choices in their lives

that determine their whole future

and maybe they wither

and slowly decay

Until they are a husk

and essentially are dead.

Why is life like this?

Why can the Haves be overpowered with goodness?

Does good opportunities fall into ‘too much is never a good thing?’

Sometimes

the will to live

is a greater proponent

in thriving

than the ability to survive

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Part 2 of 3: The Color of Broccoli

I have all these questions, but I don’t know if I’ll forget them tomorrow. Has tomorrow come? Is today tomorrow? When will tomorrow come? Time is infinite. Here. I don’t know if I’ve spent days here. Maybe weeks. Could even be years. Or maybe all this is between my alarm and my five minute snooze button. Time is all I have. But is time infinite in my five minute snooze?

The philosophers of old would kill to be in my position, no distractions, all the time in the world. They could ponder the meaning of life, the behaviors of people, who they are. I’m trying to figure those question out myself. I’ve figured out I need to live first to ponder the meaning of life. I’m merely existing. I need to see another person to ponder humanity’s behaviors. I need to know how I’m like or different from other people to know who I am. A person needs people in order to think.

But who would I even share my findings with? I could have figured out the meaning of life or the cure to cancer, but I couldn’t share it with anyone. I could know how the universe is made, how to bring world peace, but I can never share it. Knowledge is only worth something if you can share it. Without another person, the key to happiness is just wasted space in brain cells.

So I decided to make another person. A whole town of people. A story in my head. I would share my life with them. I would share the cure to cancer with them. Well, if I knew it. Except how can I make characters in a story when I can’t remember ever seeing another person?

I tell a story and words and their world float out of my mouth. The power of words whistle around me, the ideas carried with them dance in my imagination’s eye. Maybe word aren’t only meant to be a connection between people. Maybe words can be a connection between the back of the mind and the corner of the soul. Words can form a bridge between my imagination and my reality.

But what if this 8 by 8 by 8 room is my imagination? What if in reality I’m driving down the road in a professional looking neighborhood, in a professional looking car, in professional looking clothes, going to a professional looking job; what-if-ing about a place where imagination ruled? What if in reality I’m dying, so I decide to live in imagination?

I say these words and they are here from a moment, the time from when it is conceived in my brain to when it emits a sound and carbon dioxide into the air. Then the word are lost between the particles of nitrogen and oxygen. If only I could plaster words to the walls and read them for hours. I speak and make my thoughts into sounds that disappear after my lips have moved onto the next word. What if yesterday I knew why I was in here?

I have run out of words.

I have put all the words I know into infinite combinations. I need a new idea. My imagination is dying. Without new input, no output can occur. I am alone. I will never know anyone and no one will ever know me. So why do I still try to make myself known? No one will ever know I tried, so no one will ever know I gave up. But I will know. Is living for myself enough? Am I selfish like that? But is there anyone for me to be selfless for?

I’m rambling, I know. You probably want to get back to your coffee and daydreaming about the golden days of retirement. But words are precious to me and time is not.

My Candles

Grab the candles from the cabinet

Pink, Yellow, Blue, Green

Lift the tab

Shake the box

Grab it by the wicks

Place them in piles of three

Count them to match my age

Stove them into the cake

Light a match

Light the candles

The fire getting close to my hand

All the candles are lite

Blow out the match

Set it on a napkin

Smile at all the faces

Young, Old, all happy

And they begin to sing

First a slow ‘Happy’

and soon the others join in

The rough voices

but soft with care

Wax drips

And the song ends

and they stare

Waiting to see the fire flicker out

Wishes flunder through my head

I choose

I inhale

I blow

From an aerial attack I wipe out all the lights

even the ones on the sides of the cake

No boyfriends for me!

Pull out the candles

and let’s eat cake!

 Foter / CC BY

Foter / CC BY


Today is my birthday!

Part 1 of 3: The Color of Broccoli

The color of broccoli, it’s the most magical thing I have ever seen, or remember seeing. Its shades changing from one stem to another. The way how it is at first light in shade then slowly, flows darker then blossoms into little buds of beauteous broccoli. The shape and texture of broccoli may be close to that of cauliflower, but the color of broccoli . . . is glorious. Cauliflower is bland, numb, equal. Broccoli is vibrant, contrasting, transitioning shades. Today I have cauliflower. I wish it was broccoli.

In. For. Of. Cat. A. Had. The. Did. On. Sat. Simple words that make no sense. Word are just characters and sounds that humans have made to be a substitute for movements and grunts. When did we first feel the need to communicate? Running from a lion? ‘Get out of the way! It’s going to eat you!’ Or was it more of just an instinct? When with others of the same species, communicate. But when you are alone, why do you still feel the need to record your life, your experiences, your thoughts? Excuse me, I should have said I. I am alone, but I want to share this with you. What I don’t understand is why I want to share me with you so badly. I mean, I try to record my thoughts, even when it hurts me.

I am afraid I’ll forget what I thought about, and just continue thinking the same thing over and over, and each time thinking that it is a new thought. I asked for a computer. No answer. I asked for paper and a pencil. No answer. I asked for a stone and a chisel. No answer. I screamed. I pleaded. I yelled. I cried. No answer. But who do I think would answer me? I think the people who give me the broccoli and cauliflower might. I never see them, but I know they are there. In trying to keep my humanity – civil communication – I became inhumane, to myself. I scratched at the walls to form letters.

I don’t remember what happened afterwards, but now I don’t have nails anymore. The walls are plain again, I don’t remember what I wrote. The walls are like cauliflower again. I use to have long hair, now I don’t know what it looked like. I pulled one strand at a time and spit on it. I would then manipulate the piece of hair until it formed a letter or word. It’s all gone now. I thought about using my blood as paint, so I bit my finger until it bled. I couldn’t see the blood. Is blood suppose to be invisible? I can’t use invisible ink because what’s the use of writing if you can’t see it? Do you know any other way to write?

I try to guess what they will bring me for my meal. It switches from water or milk, chicken or fish, bread or rice, cauliflower or broccoli. All of the food is bland in shade, except for magical broccoli of course. The food, my clothes, the walls, my skin, the floor, everything in this 8 by 8 by 8 cell is the same shade of bland numbness. There are no windows, no doors, no air vents, no light bulbs. I don’t know how my food arrives or how my excrement leaves.

Isn’t skin suppose to have dark spots or wrinkles or tiny little hair? When your fingers pinch skin, isn’t it suppose to change colors? Aren’t you suppose to be able to take off your clothes? Isn’t your veins suppose to seen when they are close to the surface of the skin? Isn’t your tongue suppose to be long enough where you can see it? I wonder what shade my tongue is. I wonder what shade my eyes are. I hope they are the color of broccoli.