Love Your Life: No More Bullshit

This month I've decided to dedicate my posts to love. Not that sappy, sensual kind of love.... LIFE LOVE. Valentine's Day is cool and all, I think we also need to remember to love ourselves and create a love that we are excited about. I'll be posting a bunch of "love" post dedicated to all aspects of life, including blog love, friends love and self love. I hope you like what I have planned!

The best thing about life is that we get to create our own destinations. It is the one thing we all have that is truly our own, and we get to decide how it happens. Fate and spirituality aside, we are in total control of the choices we make and how we handle situations. That's the beauty of having a brain and living, isn't it?

We may struggle at times and feel like we can't do what we want to do... be it with work, family, or other aspects of our lives, but the truth is, we can. Some of us put with so much unnecessary stress but the fact is, we place it there ourselves.

I'm going to be usual blunt self for a minute and tell you this: you don't have to put up with bullshit Negativity, situations that make you feel less than who you are, and (what I like to call) "power-hoarding people" are all present in your life because you let them be. You don't have to put up with anything, at any time, from anyone.

I've not had to deal with "superiors" or silly class/workroom drama for so many years, but I have spent a lot of time listening to other people complain and cry either about certain aspects of their lives, their bosses, and even the conditions they've been living or working in. I know where they're coming from even I used to be one of them. But being completely removed from those types of scenes for long period of time has given me a fresh perspective and one that always leaves me chiming in "you don't have to deal with that".

Anything that makes you feel less happy or uncomfortable doesn't have to be tolerated. There is always a way to change a situation and too many of us are afraid to do so. If you feel mistreated by someone, say something. If you're in a bad relationship, leave. If you hate your job, get a new one. It might after your path slightly but it doesn't mean you won't ever find your way back on track. Like I said, it's so simple... you are in control!

"But... but.." I know those "buts"  come easily. They are put in your mind to make you feel as though you can't do something, because actually doing something might take you out of your own comfort zone. Ask yourself this every tome you question yourself by spewing out a "but". "but", it's technically possible, right?" Meaning, you could actually do something about it if you wanted to tried hard enough, couldn't you? It might be hard, but you could alter your life slightly to find your happiness.

That's not to say that I think you should disrespect your superiors and start telling everyone off. I just believe that as people in people in general, all of us are equal and none of us have a right to make someone else feel less superior in life. A manager isn't a better person than a store clerk, just like an older person doesn't always now more than someone half their age. I think those are important things to remember in regards to how we treat each other and how we think about people.

So when you start complaining about certain aspects of your life that you think you have to just deal with, realize that you don't. You deserve more than that and trust me when you look back on your life you'll wonder why you put with those situations for so long. You deserve a life you love with no stress. You are capable of making a change you just have to change your way of thinking to make it happen.

Lets talk about Love.

Love is a serial killer. It kills lover after lover with knives in the heart and guns to the head. Love is a sociopath. It charms you with love- songs and your favorite chocolate but only to get your guard down and attack you. Love is a thief. It steals your ribs made of diamonds and leaves you broke. Love will beat you in the dirty corners of your street on your way home and leaves you with a black eye and a love poem. Love is a stalker. It stalks you in the supermarket or at a party but you rather call that dejavu. Love is bloody. You will wake up from your nightmares in a bath of blood and you will scream for help but it is just too late. Love kidnaps your mind and locks it in a basement where is no light and the dark thoughts will be all you know. It’s called the Stockholm syndrome. Love is a burglar. Breaking inside your body and steals every golden dust you are made of and then bury you in the middle of nowhere.

And love is a psychopath. And we all are victims.

We almost dated is such a sad relationship to have with someone. Almost is such a weird title to own.

As if you almost could have tasted his lips and you are almost pretty sure they taste like pink roses.

And he almost loved you back and was ready to water your dry ribs and plant flowers in between your lungs.

Almost has become a habit of me. I never really possessed something entirely. and so when I tell you that I am hungru and that i need more than a taste...you have to understand that I have been starving for eras.

Almost is all I know and I wish it wasn't like this. I want possession and cold pure nights of nothing but the drunken taste of love in my mouth, in my throat, in my veins, in my brain, and in my blood.

I almost had you. Almost.

- N xx

You've made us a terrible, my love

Hurricane - Mindy Smith

- Yes, I've been posting a lot this June.

(First thing first I'm a realest. lol joke) OKAY, fist I want to answer someones question and it was about my blogging. How can I write such a relatable poems? Well, It was because if I'm writing it I can feel the pain, I write poem mostly when I'm sad and feel broken because writing a poem help me so much. I'm not that kind of girl that always call up her bestfriend and open about her sadness over these guy, that couples, that friends or family. For me it's easier to explain my feelings by writing poems. Did I already experience it? Some of my poem was mostly about my past, my experience of being heartbroken and being loved, but SOME of my poem I didn't really experience it. Then where did my thoughts came from? I have a lot of friends that had a boyfriend and girlfriend, sometimes when we talk they open up about their lovers and just keep telling me their story, after that words of my thoughts just running around my head then later on I will grab a piece of paper and write it or sometimes just in phone. The other poem is about love story I've read or watch, and some are just my imaginary. Is it easy to write a poem? No, its not really that easy but when you're really on the mood of writing it you can do it in fastest way because all you can do is just express your feelings on the paper. (:

August. I was lost and trying to remember how to forget about broken love and severed heart strings. I found you on the first floor of that party while I was looking for someone else. I never thought of dancing but when you asked, my beer tainted lips quivered themselves into a smile as I nodded at you.

September. I was reserved but risk was your middle name. Your bold, bad-boy beauty was enticing. And I wanted it, all of it. I took a chance on you, plunging heart first with no idea what I was getting into. I still don't know if I love you or what I know you could be if you pulled yourself together. I'd like to think it's both.

October. The closest month we shared to purr bliss. We fight every day but it never felt like it then. We learned the curves of each other's bodies and explored the crevices of one another minds. I wasn't scared anymore.

November. You were telling me I should trust you for eternities and that's how long I wanted to spend with you. You undid me the way you'd been undone and I feel love in your touch I felt it. The loss of my innocence was bittering in the way I could never be the girl I was again, but there was no one I'd rather have given that piece of me to.

December. Time apart from loved ones has always been humbling to me because you are that much more appreciative of what you have. I wrote poems for the way I missed you and I let you read. That is the other piece of me I gave to you that I have never given to anyone else. You are the first subject of my work who has seen it.

January. The way we reunited has never contained any sparks; it's always been a full-fledged, three alarm fire. The touch of your lips on my forehead was all I ever needed, love. I know you never understood, but this love has become everything to me, and here I stand prepared to let it fully consume my being.

February. It is dark and the days were still short and that is how I felt. Our days were marked by sadness and the everlasting presence of my short fuse. We made unforgivably regrettable mistakes. I haven't forgiven myself yet and I'm not sure I ever will. And that was when I tried to leave you for the first time.

March. I gave you my initial bracelet to wear so you would think of me in our time apart. You had it ob while you kissed two other people. I cannot find the words to write about that.

April. The sweatshirt you let me wear in October that I decided I was never going to give back doesn't smell like you anymore which means there is no point in me wearing it. Every trace of your scent is now overpowered by my own. It smells like my hair and looks slightly more faded. It is like us. We have lost every trace of who we were supposed to be together and individually; I am faded. I need to be alone. I need to be alone. I need to be alone.

I don't know how to leave?

- N xx

Poem Madness: Anyone listening....

There once was a girl followed by an invisible raincloud
And she went around knocking on doors until one day a boy opened up and saw her drenched in words that had never been said

And she looked at him with her coffee black eyes and whispered
“I’ve never been able to apologize, but if you let me in, I could learn.”
And so the girl learned how to play the piano

And on days when the boy and girl would come home from work frustrated and scared that they were taking their lives in the completely wrong direction
She would sit down
And she would play

And she would play about all the emotions she had seen and all the people they were attached to and how they never seemed to have time for hers

And the boy would wrap his scared arms around her waist and breath his story into her
And the apartment would swell with gilded notes and anyone listening a floor up and a floor down
Would close their eyes and think
Isn’t that magnificent?

When it was all over they would lie in bed and he would whisper “baby, I don’t think it can get much worse”
And she would tug on his shoulders and let her words trickle down his spine and say
“I don’t think you’re allowed to lie to me like that”

Years passed and the boy and girl both met people who made them look at themselves differently

People who made the girl’s coffee black eyes less like a caffeine burst of hunger and more like eerie black beads
People who made the boy’s curly forest of hair feel less like a haven and more like a hunting ground
Instead of slipping away into dark alley ways with beautiful strangers—and they were beautiful

The girl would sit down and she would play
And she would play about all the things she wanted to see and all the things she wanted to unseen and the second list was always…longer

And the boy would shoot glassware to the ground like cannon balls in an attempt to tell a story of how he had watched his father hurt his mother but had never done anything about it

And the apartment swirled with orange sparks and something that the boy was so sure was close to magic

And anyone listening a floor up or a floor down
Would put their heads down and whisper
Isn’t that haunting?

As the seasons passed and winter chills ripped the fall leaves down
The boy and the girl found themselves paralyzed with the realization that they wouldn’t always be around
And the girl sat down and she would play

And she played about a little girl who was so in love with beautiful things that she had tripped and fallen over so many slender jaw bones and hazel eyes—And before the boy could ask her how she got those scrapes on her knees she went to play about the kind of love that had kept her alive

And it started with his name and it ended with the tip of his tongue
And the boy admitted that a very, very long time ago his school had convinced him that there was magic
in his veins
So he opened them up to see if he could find them

And she stood there
So angry at him
Because how in the world did he not know she was coming from him?

And the girl who was perplexed by the fact that sometimes you could eat breakfast for dinner had never come so close to hitting someone

And anyone listening a floor up and a floor down…

- N xx

Poem Madness: you were more than my January, you were my New Year.

“I’ve avoided writing for days because I knew my next poem would be about you,
Just like my last poem was about you.
Every person we meet carries their own story,
And I turned your’s into braille, ripping my fingers into shreds reading you cover to cover.
It’s been six months since I last heard your voice, but I still remember your little brother’s name. 
Every time I see your favorite color, it’s never the right shade. 
To me you were everything,
But to you, I was just another girl that you had met, 
We were nothing more than two weeks of wine and Waffle House. 
Your life was a tangled web of mistakes you were too young to have already made,
And I allowed you to wrap me up in it. 
I shared my feelings for you at midnight as we sat in your kitchen drunk and alone.
And as soon as the words fell out, I wished that they hadn’t.
I kept apologizing for making things awkward,
But you made me look you in the eye, and whispered that everything was okay.
You pushed your lips against mine before I could process what was happening, 
You tasted like menthol's and forbidden fruit. 
Within weeks you were a stranger, who ignored my messages, 
Having moved onto bigger and better drunken nights. 
I tried telling myself that you were never mine, but it kept turning into the fact that I was never yours. 
It’s June and I still miss our January. 
Two weeks of wine and Waffle House,
Gin and tonic and deep conversations,
Vodka and laughter,
And I was left with nothing but a hungover heart.”

- N xx

Poem Madness: "I am a cynic about love. I don’t allow myself to fall for just anybody.”

us whiskey women with our teeth so white 

they gleam like the stars that kiss the mountains, 
us late-night storm warnings with tornadoes in our fingertips, 
the whorls of our hands 
getting wrinkly in the souls we spill across floors, 
us danger-zone high-risk disaster areas, full of sharp bone slabs and falling emotions, 
full of the moon because we feel wolf, 
full of the wind because we feel empty,

you find us in your bed with your skin raw 
where we have dug in, you find us in the corners of rooms because we don’t need an audience, 
you find us in your classrooms where we sit just-so, 
the long lines of our necks like the sickle of a blade, 
we are death’s mistress and he is seduced by our riskiness

but in the late night if you catch one of us and let our thorns find your veins and hold our petals so gently that we feel safe, 
if you tell us we can leave when we like and refuse to chain us by your side, if you love us for our wild - 
this is when you find the warm hearth with slow passion, the
sweetest honeysuckle all wrapped up in barbed wire, 
this is where you find the heart we have patched up and surrounded with briar because we were sick of being broken,
this is where you find our scars and the places we stitched
together with our own sinew, this is where 
we will love you with hurricane walls, the fury of a tempest at 
your command, if you find us here we will give you our
whole beings with a fierceness that would break
our mother’s heart -

and good lord, do not make us let you in 
if you just intend to leave again.

- N xx

Poets that Break Hearts for Art

Poets are so shady. We are never honest and even if we seem to be too honest and raw, we are not. We are selfish and egoistic. We only write about what hurts us. We write about our pain and suffering. Moreover, we blame it on lover after lover. You have already read that a thousand times before, the story of a how a person broke our heart and tricked our mind.

However, what we never write about is the hearts we break, and the pain we cause. I am not as innocent as I made myself seem in my poems, yes, I am in love with a fool and he breaks my heart every day. But sometimes I wonder if it is just karma hitting me repeatedly.

Oh, there has been a boy willing to set himself on fire for me but I handed him the matches and left… I never saw the beauty of him burning for me. And later on I’ve read about him in the paper, that he is not ashes anymore. Oh my God, there has been a boy I’ve let starving because I thought he already ate too much. I did not want to be another bittersweet revenge on his plate…. only to find out that he was honestly hungry for the love he thought I could give him. I read his cooking books, and he makes sweets for a lovely girl now. And oh, there was a boy with a broken heart but with strong hands that wanted to touch me. I thought I was too extravagant for his dirty soul, and so later on I found out he had mines of gold and diamonds.

I’ve hurt a lot of people. I’ve hurt them the way this boy is hurting me. And now I am screaming to God to forgive me. I’ve been so so ruthless with their good hearts. And I am down on my knees praying for the ghosts to stop hunting me every time I try to love him.

- N xx

Start of something new....

hello there. after searching to buy a new template for this blog didn't work, i decided just to edit it in my own i mean its not that so pretty or flawless like the others blog but..whatever i like it though, its just so simple.

so i want to start something new to my blog, i want to open up everything that had been happening to me or share my thoughts and everything. after a years of been going to psychiatrist he suggested me to be more open to everyone about how i feel, if im angry or i feel happy he suggested me to have a journal so i can write it on there. Im such a Lay-Z-girl about writing sometimes so i decided to just blog it. I think it will be alright? its just the same although i'm not going to use some papers and pen but a laptop and you guys can read it...

i still don't have my laptop, it's still on the shop & im using the laptop here at hotel (im on my training) we're not doing anything right now so i decided to open the laptop and just type.

also, i've been reading a lot of books lately.

well, i cant say anything more. talk to you soon x

(Oh shit, i updated my blogs and it all flip-up. my post at december goes to february. the Poem Madness! lets just leave it there.)

Delicate Rose

Apologizing for not posting any. I can't be back on my track, everything has fallen down, well, school is still hell everything is just so hard now! and i need to focus i'm so dissapointed to myself already im getting a little bit carried away from everything. and, and my laptop still not working so yeah. today im at the hotel were im having a training at my course. really boring. for today just enjoy this poem i wrote. i'll be back soon x



Delicate Rose

There is this girl that reminds me of a flower so beautiful,
the sight of it could bring anyone to tears.
Her voice was like honey and her words were sweet.
She always seemed happy and carefree.
I never knew of the trouble she had at home,
and the hatred she felt when she looked in the mirror.
I never knew she had tried to starve herself multiple times.
I realized too late what she had been through.
Although she had survived the battle, she still fears she will lose the war.
Even now, when I try to talk to this beautiful flower,
she shys away, closing up her petals.
She has layers of armor so thick
to protect herself from the arrows aimed at her heart,
thinking they all yearn to poison her.
She is pretty as a rose, but like the flower she has thorns to shield herself
from the dangerous world that is surrounding her.

My pretty flower, we aren’t all like that.
My delicate rose, lower your shield,
open your petals, and let your inner beauty show.

We would all like to see the real you.

dear....

we looked down at our scarred and broken feet and told ourselves that this was normal.

i think we were only repeating what we ourselves knew to be a lie, handcrafted by years of smiling parents and bleeding friends and crying other halves on the opposite end of the world. we had curled in on ourselves in the dead of each hungry night clutching bruised fists to our mouths and biting teeth into our bones.

trying to deny, deny, deny. i like to imagine (because it makes me happy) that as our health declined then skipped then dropped we would have looked down at our bodies and said, yes, this is wrong but i know that with each shattering and crumbling relapse we fell further into the pit of ‘this is what we want.’

mirrors were cursed in the morning—don’t you remember that—silhouettes torn by the backs of our hands with the sweat of what we had seen burning its way down into our palms.

if you had lifted our fingers at those moments you would have found needles scratching another snapped record of ‘yes i’m fine’ and ‘no thank you’ into the heavy air like it was the sound of the world ending. and we treated it like that. we clung to our safeties and counted the numbers like they could have saved us, and when it came down to just us and the equations written on our lips in glass, they did.

they pulled us from the brink we had created then imagined. molasses under our heels  and the future invisible (we were invincible) we plowed through the days like we could have stopped it at will.

 i like to think (because it makes it better) that there could have been an ending for us one day. when we could have closed our eyes in peace and pressed closed the pages of our wind-up life. but it was a general broken truth that even though we see the glimmering possibility of love in this, it was far from that. we were spent candles withering and smoking shattered on the floor of stereotypes and past lives we were

we were breathing. and for the moment, that would be okay. that would be enough.

because now look at us, sitting on top of the world and pretending like it’s alright to smile. look inside and backwards through our eyes and we’re still poems that won’t ever make sense we’re still exclamations of the disease that lingers in our hearts and

won’t

let

go

we are

tired but we’re only children wrapped in the skin of this new era. don’t look at me don’t look at me mother sister sister don’t come near until the flames have taken away what is left of the person you knew. don’t come close until you see my future crumbled away through my fingers burning smoking cry weep on the floor.

sometimes i think (because it fixes everything) that it’s a sign that the numbers align little pieces to our own sick puzzle, don’t look at me. i will still answer your calls. for a while we were singular and even though your number is still locked away in the cabinet of my mind i can recite your name backwards and forwards and still have enough air in my fucked up throat to close my eyes and whisper. when i don’t answer it’s because i’m waiting for the voicemail so i can replay it a thousand times and never get hurt. you pop my eardrums, you make the silence louder and without me i sob into the walls (they come alive) because i am missing. you.

i do not hang up the curtains you pulled down. i still count my calories and then when there is nothing left to say i count my steps and then my breaths and then every time i blink. when i don’t open the door and pretend to be somewhere you find i shouldn’t be you smash the windows you step inside you sit on my floor and stare at me and i am

broken

i do not speak and you make me well again you

you are whole and i am not.

i am jealous and you get to watch.

imprints of your fingertips on my spine each gasping pain where my bones come together. i still feel your eyes. if i concentrate i can think of your voice it’s been forty years but i remember your accent i remember the numbers.

things have changed.

this is not the most perfect miracle i have created, but it is the aftermath of what you do best. i am nothing now i fly i am a backwards wailed lamentation squeezed between the keys the door of the car the crash the accident that sent me opening my eyes into a life i have never wanted.

i am over you. i do not taste you on my lips. i do not breathe you at night i do not but

who am i kidding.

i still do not sleep. when i do not see results the second it happens i crash and we burn and then you’re there again holding me back.

but what can i say anymore?

i am still a four page novel we’re empty metaphors for the perfect life nobody wants. i like to imagine (because it makes me smile) that we formulated this lie in the backs of our minds and sent it forward with a weak throw that summed up our race our last stand against the inevitable.

in the end our old selves will fall to their knees and we came blinking naïve into the sunlight like we’d never seen it before. we still hide. we write messages and then send them away in broken bottles.

i  have pulled you away my love but this is the lie the secret i’ve succumbed to. this is my giving up and giving out laid in nine different ways before your hands. do what you like with what’s left of me. pick over it like art. weep at the remains. hide your tears for a glimpse of what you’ve been missing. press your fingers against the tails of my breathing and the sweep of my eyes skyward then white. because i am dust i am just another thing you cannot touch or take away. i am to be watched now that i cannot watch you. i am one more name you can’t say after dark. grovel in my steps, find code in my writing. send me backwards send me away shatter the sleep this is what you wanted

this is what you wanted

this is what you wanted.

sincerely yours.