Burdened By Selfish Others

As I fold shirts for the gazillionth time, I wonder, "Is this my life?" Or when I serve my other millionth guest, "Is this my life?" I feel I have spent my life doing for others, time and time again. Oh my fucking god! What about me? Am I having a selfish moment? Damn right I am! I work and work. I provide for my daughters, try to do a good job at work, try to keep peace with people I don't want to anymore. Why do I try sometimes? If this is all life's about is stress, I don't want it! Not life it is, but this stress. I know life is not perfect, but if other people would actually give a shit about someone besides themselves, perhaps there would be less people like me. People like me who wonder will I have rent, or food for my kid. I want to worry about my kid being able to take classes and sports, not whether I will have a roof for them or food. I don't want to be rich, but I sure as hell don't want to count pennies for rent. My life is not a burden, nor my children, but the selfish act of others who could have helped prevent the struggle I encounter. There is no changing people, I can't change how I feel...but jeez when do people open their eyes and see how damn selfish they are. I don't want pity, I don't want hand-outs. I want what all people want, fairness, kindness and fess up when you have been useless and make yourself useful for once. I am only saying what many want to say. I feel this way about many people in my life. I don't hate them, but I will always wonder why. Why do some people bend over backwards for their friends, yet family comes last. You all know who you are...remember karma is everyone's friend. Karma never gives up...she is the gift that keeps on giving.

Just Write It

"Poems are thoughts given permission to speak."

Hole

It is this dark metaphor I crawl deep inside when the world is too much to breathe.There is no race to when I leave, no hare or tortoise running or slugging beside or past me. I only see a light when I talk my way out of the pathetic gloom I have fell into.Sometimes I tiptoe into this hole, other times a vacuum swallows me and spins me in all the pity-dust I left from before. People say and write not to live in the past, it is easier to write the truth than to apply it. Especially when every dream creates it again and again. If I don't dream, I die right?
What if this pit of memories doesn't let me out one day? Will this make me insane? All my positivity I dispurse to my fellow surroundings is all I want to believe, yet I feel it is escaping me.

See-saw

Multiple birds serenade the air in the morning and like people, some seem to have a purpose, others you want to choke. I sit and smoke cancer every morning while sipping on my caffeine fix and contemplate. Why do some birds even try to sing? What are they so joyful for when they sound like a car wreck? Yet every morning, they sing as if they are pleased with annoying me so. I listen and try to understand them like I do people, some sing beautiful and some I want to send to hell with the idiots I know in the world. I have to remember that they too, like the ugly, inhumane people in this world serve a purpose. What is that purpose? For me it is to have a heart and to realize that looks and songs of people (and birds) do not define them. For instance: The blue jay shimmers with blues and silvers and blacks, yet he sings like a sick cat on his last wind. Woodpeckers, do they even carry a melody? Or does the constant hole drilling count for a beat? Every morning I laugh out loud at the mocking bird, he mocks not only the tweets and twerps of the competition, he stirs up this screeching dog next door as well. They bark back and forth like they are on a seesaw, to see who can get higher, or who will fall off and fade away. I wonder if we amuse birds or if they even care.

My morning coffee thoughts

As the birds sang me a morning tune, I caught myself talking to a mosquito. Damn little black devils always sneak up on me. This one, politely as he could, did not even let himself be known until he slowly flew away, leaving me with a sting. Sometimes the unexpected does not hurt so bad. I decided to compare people like bugs. Like mosquitoes, they can sneak up on you and you do not feel the pain until afterwards, when they leave. Others are like spiders and bees, dangerous and even deathly. Then you have lady bugs and rolli-polli's who bother no one and even need a push every once and a while. Stink-bugs? Do I have to explain? We all know a few of those.

Aphorism

I love, but I can dislike you all in once. It is a love/hate relationship. Your touch can tickle my emotions like a chocolate craving one day and the next like needled rain. It is who I am. Marilyn Monroe's quote "If you can't handle me at my worst, then you sure as hell don't deserve me at my best," is a true statement of me. I am sure others feel the same yet can not admit it. I had a psychiatrist tell me one time that a person who is in love all the time will die from an ulcer. Perhaps writers die early because they are always in love of writing something better, but never feel it is enough. Butterflies are anxiety, not actual cocoons swimming in your tummy. Perhaps I am a lover to myself. I have days I love everyone, others...no one. I am irrational, yet sometimes never enough. The only true person who can contaminate my dreams is me. As much as I would like to blame the ones who hurt me, I cannot. Depending on how I accept the fate is my fruitful outcome. I thank myself for letting them go, I stab myself with thoughts of caring for their own. I am a kind lover, but a selfish thinker. My thoughts are my own and the only ones you see is what you read.

"I Take Thee Pencil to Be...."

As a child, I think I chose writing. It was my escape from reality. Because I was not allowed to express my opinion, I wrote them and my feelings in poetry form.  It was therapy to write as a child. I feel it kept me out of trouble from being backhanded or grounded for talking back to my parents.

I continued writing as a grownup as well. Every break-up I went through, or heartache, I  confided in my journal and wrote my pain in stanza form. When I went to college I had no clue what I wanted to do.  I simply wanted to learn. I did not choose school for a degree, I chose it to learn more about myself and to become a better writer.

In the end, well presently, I think writing picked me. Because now, writing chooses me and I have married it with my heart it soul. I can always turn to writing and feel at ease.