3 AM RAMBLINGS & Indistinct Dreams

So I’m going to write everything until something makes sense. I read this tweet from someone that said something along the lines of “Pay attention to who comes to get you when you retreat inside of yourself.” There’s no one here.

3 AM RAMBLINGS & Indistinct Dreams

Self conscious and self aware are not the same and I happened to become both at once. I recognized that I needed to work on myself to find inner peace. I’d spent the first five years of motherhood learning that despite knowing who you are as a woman, your identity changes when you become a mother. It’s now year six and I still don’t know who “she” is.

I am a woman first because being a woman allows me to feel human. The woman I imagine myself to be knows how to cope with the white noise. As a mom, I feel overwhelmed, lonely, neurotic. As a mom, I should have all the cures and answers my children ask of me but I feel as though I’m coming up short; with empty hands.

My old friend battles anxiety and depression. I was her crutch. Imagine using a broken crutch. When I saw that I needed to pull away to be repaired, I tried but was discarded in the process so fuck her.

I have a friend who is negative. The world is negative. Imagine listening to a broken record. Even a broken clock is right twice a day so I keep her bc she keeps me.

I had a friend who lived in an old shoe. It turns out, we weren’t friends at all. I was her cobbler. Imagine being drained of healing properties you didn’t know you had.

3 AM RAMBLINGS & Indistinct Dreams

You owe yourself your mental health. I can’t help you if I don’t help myself. No longer unable to identify those that drained my mental health, I’m ready to dig into my deeper subconscious.

Night time, maybe even dusk. Think state fair in Central Park. Able to order plates from amazon. Ordered pizza bbq chicken and other random fare. Conspiracy theorist meeting nearby. People go up a tower and don’t come down. I went up the tower before my food arrived and returned without remembering the trip. My food was covered but the random ppl that ordered with me were gone. Saw a homeless guy run further into the park. I gave chase then woke up.

I am growing. I think.

I see him everywhere in everything. I wish I was referring to my higher power but I’m referring to my lost and late love. I wonder if this will ever get any easier.

My chest hurts. I wanna cry but the strength and stubbornness in my melanin will not permit me to do so.

I need you because I trust you even though it doesn’t seem like it. Again, blame the stubbornness in my melanin.

A woman who cried often taught me that the only real emotion or relevant emotion was her anger. I don’t know how to fix it. I heard this is called Black Trauma.

I don’t want to kill myself. I have so many stories to tell and trips to take. I just want to feel better. When I breathe, I don’t want the crack in my heart to feel like it’s bleeding. I don’t want it to feel like the bricks I laid around my emotions are eroding, taking my ability to love and be empathetic away in the winds if experience.

3 AM RAMBLINGS & Indistinct Agony

I’m tired but can’t sleep. My eyes are burning but they won’t close. My brain hurts but it won’t rest. I’m trapped in a continuous REM state and the entire show is a nightmare.

January 2020, my first property will be a building. This building will be transformed into a privately funded transitional shelter for single individuals and families. At least 10 apartments to begin. Hebrews 11:1

I’m tired. I forget to pray for inner peace and when I remember, the stubbornness of a born sinner won’t allow me to follow Psalms but I think it was people like me that Jesus died for. I’m hoping this is sufficient.

I’m so tired.

I am tired.

I miss him so much. I don’t think any of my friends understand why. He loved me through the mental break downs before we understood my affliction to be a mental illness. He loved me anyway. His family loved me anyway. They even liked me despite the burden my 14 year old broken spirit arrived with.

You are among my dearest memories. When my mother was thought to be hours from death, it was you, the person I knew least who comforted me the most. It was you who kept me occupied. It was you who visited my mother when I could not. It was you who watched me cry without judgement. Thank you.

I want an ofrenda. My father had one but it wasn’t called an ofrenda. It was simply the ancestors’ room.

I’m tired.

My phone is dying.

I can’t sleep.

But I must sleep.

Still nothing makes sense but I must sleep.

Master’s Masterpiece

He said he’d buy me a collar then we’d do erotic things.

I wonder what those things include.

Would he instruct me to gracefully kneel and lift my hair?

As he fixes the collar to my neck, would his rough finger tips graze the tiny goosebumps on my nape?

Before he walks around to stand in front of me, lifting my chin so he can see me

Staring into my eyes so he can see us

Clearly.

Because I am now his submissive.

A reflection of his dominance,

A result of his care,

His masterpiece.

:Random 57:

Our taste is on the tip of my tongue; our scent lingers on my lips and nose. A tingle remains on my backside to remind me of the way you popped my ass to correct my arch. I want to please you in every way.

:Random 56:

I’m feeling antsy in this heat. I should be in the nude. Your hands should be fixed in the crooks of my knees. My knees should be pressed into ribs while your phallus massages my insides. The sound of coqui add to the soundtrack of our love making.

:Random 55:

Let us recite our sacrilegious prayer. It’s the one we share prior to commencing congress. You give thanks to our higher power for giving me your rib. I give thanks for the strength in your backbone. Our lips unite after we say ‘amen.’ You’re delicious. Stroke me.

:Random 54:

Lay up with me under clouds of weed smoke. Your fingers part my lips while you kiss the other pair.

Unfamiliar

Let’s cross the line between lovers and friends.
Devour my body.
Entrap my soul.
Impress me.
Excite me.
Deliver me.

French kisses for your phallus
and chills for your spine.
Nibbles for my clit while you squeeze my ass
and suck my soul.

This is important.
I don’t want to be your friend.
I only want to be your lover.

Don’t ask me about my day
Just remove my panties.
Take  off your clothes.
You mustn’t speak.
No, you mustn’t speak.

Let’s be unfamiliar.

the Best French Kiss

He uses his lips and tongue to part yours. The crema escapes your taut pussy and drizzles his chin. Soft moans escape the deepest part of your body. He sucks on your clit and tongues your hole. His slurps get louder as his eagerness to receive your orgasm increases. Your hips grind your pussy on to his tongue. Faster. Faster. Faster still but he doesn’t want to stop the fun. His pace suddenly slows down; eager licks and slurps have transitioned to sensual kisses on your clit.

Not yet.

Life of a Writer

This is random but I’m sitting here trying not to beat myself up. The fact is, I’m only human. I’m entitled to be easily distracted, aren’t I? I question this because my “sole purpose” of opening my laptop tonight was to write. But I have no self discipline and I wind up doing things that are not related to writing in the least. I’m hoping that another writer will reach out from my woodwork of creative followers and tell me that this is a part of any creative process. So here goes.

  1. Finding good music. Something to vibe to that isn’t too loud or fast paced. Perhaps a little sensual or even melancholy.
  2. Watching funny vines. Animals are so funny. No emotions, my ass. *Scoff*
  3. Signing on to WordPress & finishing a short story and starting a new one.
  4. Wait, I finished a story so before I start a new one, I surf the net and by net I mean Facebook and maybe instagram.
  5. Bad lady cramps. Let’s get on the floor and stretch. May as well work out a little too.
  6. More Facebook – funny cat compilation.
  7. Starts new short story
  8. Pondering my life.
  9. Puts baby back to sleep. ( in addition to being a writer, i also have two children)
  10. Self doubt
  11. Food?
  12. No. – just no.
  13. More self doubt.
  14. Okay, more writing.
  15. Meh…I can’t even finish this list.
  16. Sleep.

Never Ending

I’m fighting against the stereotypes of being
a Black woman.
a single mother. a co-parent.
a plus sized woman or
not that big” woman.
a leader questioning mainstream ideals.
a follower that wants to feel loved.
a young woman with Daddy issues.
a woman with the “Mad Black Woman” syndrome.

I’m suffocating & grasping at freedom. I’m dying to break free or maybe I’m simply dying.