What is this? What was that? ‘Nothing’ I tell myself, and gracefully move on as if the made up pitter patters outside my door really did not bother me at all. But really I was fighting the instant panic that I always felt when anything really happened that did not go according to my mentally scheduled plan. Oh anxiety, how you irritate me. How you engulf my morality and social ques in flames as I awkwardly stutter waiting for a question about him or her to just pop up inside my mind, or maybe I could just sneak off into a corner and hide.

A corner that felt more like an abyss, a cave, somewhere warm and safe. Always holding me with open arms of comfort while my mind is in fragments my body feels just okay. Knowing that the corner saves me from anything else like a bump to the shoulder or an odd shuffle out of the way, a twirl or a spin fighting out of the hall smiling and half-giggling, half-wanting to cringe and just leave it be…But when you might simply pass it off as another funny awkward encounter my mind sees is as proof that I am nothing but a pile of dust in the corner blown away from the most simple of gusts, the most basic of urges, imagery and comments. Nothing else I know in my made up vocabulary of things that might be funny is working thus far and I’m running further and further back into my comfort zone and never wanting to leap out again,

Oh my god I should’ve never gone out anyway, does anyone even like you or do they just feel bad for you that you haven’t had a ‘friend’ over in 4 years? Stop self-pitying and go do something productive; like reading or writing or maybe even pretending to write something or read something so that no one looks at you or talks to you, even though in the back of your clouded mind you really want someone to ask you how you’re doing or what your name is but you can’t stand the thought that someone might actually be interested in being your friend.

Because when you are someone’s friend you latch and never let go, because your paranoia loves you so dearly and wants you to succeed in your platonic love. So you attach yourself to someone, and don’t stop until you’re either dried up of all social anomalies and philosophical epiphanies or interesting facts that just another 14 year old can tap and google on their iphone’s and prove you wrong in a matter of seconds not knowing how this ruins everything, absolutely everything that you planned five minutes ago that you’d crack a joke and eat your snack, listen to a few more conversations, make a comment and leave to maybe relax. that’s all you would do and that’s what made you satisfied. That’s what made you exhausted every night you ever let your tongue slip to spill words other than to the ones of your own blood.

Lie on the couch as you get home greet the cat, greet the dog, okay let’s move on. Go on, let’s go get some food maybe some cereal lie down do nothing, maybe try and review your day of dream production and social accomplishments on your invisible checklist of hello’s and how you do’s that really won’t actually ever end. Tell a few stories of how it went, watch some videos then go to bed, dream of being left away with no one to tell your almost exciting tales.

And everyday

You think

In the middle of the night, telling yourself

Do not fall in love

Do not fall in a romantic love because that is just disgustingly inconvenient.

Do not fall in a platonic love because they will be gone soon and you will spend way too long trying to figure out what the fuck did you do wrong this time that they aren’t online or responding or talking or doing anything really. Are they dead? Who knows but it’s probably somehow your fault no matter what it is. And was it ever really worth it? Was the happiness they brought you overlap the pain and the stress they’ve given you?

Do not fall in love with anything, feel away, feel alone and feel eventually safe in the corner alone with your journals and your depressing memoirs and your gay ships and leave yourself into your own imagination before delving into the inevitable deep, seemingly unescapable pond of depression.

Remain quiet, remain calm. Remain one month without an anxiety attack. What a goal that was.

Twiddle your thumbs, pull your hair, adjust your sleeves, shift your position and try your best to look almost, kind of normal. That is of course, before you start believing there really is no sense of normality and you should just do whatever the hell you like and not care. Which mostly does not work out in the end.

Just let it, ‘it’ being the annoying ways that our people decide what is good and what is bad and what to say when you’re upset or opinionated or a decent human being, just let it go, and fly away into the socially acceptable parts of your strange, overly imaginative and anxious brain.


In Society’s Eyes: Chapter 5, Done and Gone

Chapter Five, Done and Gone

Inhale, Exhale. That’s all I’m thinking. I can see hardly anything. It’s all so blurry. I feel a deep pain in my chest, it seems to almost mimic what I’d imagine being riddled with shrapnel feels like. I put myself into a small circle and curl up like a hedgehog. My head is throbbing and my fingers are numb. My vision sluggishly begins to come back to me but my breathing is still unsteady. All I see is a white ceiling fan, twirling happily along through my pain. I feel as if I can get myself up now, and I shuffle around so I can sit up. I was in my room. I suppose there are worse places. How am I even here? I turned in my imaginary application to get the hell out of this world already and all I remember is blacking out. Am I home? That glimmer of hope inside me quickly fades as my pessimism takes over. I slowly get onto my feet, but I still can’t walk properly, so I resort to crawling. My bedroom door creaks open and I peek my head out into the hallway. All I can hear is this quiet whimpering sound. Curious, I keep shuffling down the hall until I find myself in the living room, with my mother, sobbing on the couch. I pull myself up into a crisscross sitting position, trying to think of what to say. My mom doesn’t seem to notice I’m even there. There’s a can of hairspray, an extension brush, and a huge pile of creams, concealer, and lotions scattered all across the floor. Oh god. My mom is lying on the couch in a fetal position, with Judge Judy playing on the TV. She’s still whimpering and sniffling with her hands over her face. Maybe this Judge Judy case is just emotional? No. Most likely not. “Mom…are you okay?” I finally blurt out. She gasps, mascara dripping down her face, and throws a pillow at me. “Don’t look at me!” She screams, flipping herself over and plunging her face into the remaining pillow that hasn’t been thrown at me. I take a deep sigh. “Mom, what’s wrong?” I wait a few seconds just staring at my crying mother waiting for a response. “I – I’m just – OH ANNNAAAAaaaA!” I roll my eyes. “Mom, just tell me what’s going on please.” I should be able to sound more sympathetic, but my mom tends to do this often. She’ll run out of some sort of extremely important cosmetic product and send me and Abbey out to buy it for her, burned her hair with her iron curler, or a similar situation. She finally lifts her face from the couch and points at her lower chin. There’s a – let’s call it ‘medium’ sized bright red zit, that’s she’s very obviously already tried popping multiple times. There’s puss and dead skin around it. As I try not to gag for the sake of my mother’s self-esteem, she sobs and runs her hands up her face and down again. “W-well…why don’t you um…” I struggle to speak as I’m also trying not to stare at the zit. “I ALREADY TRIED TO COVER IT UP IT’S NOT DOING SHIT!” She screams, piercing my ear drums. “Concealer…li-like my best goddamn Mac concealer Anna…and my…” She stammers and takes a moment to sniffle. “My like foundations and all the…Anna I put oils and cream stuff it’s not going away fast enough I- I can’t look in the mirror even it’s just…” Sometimes my mom feels more like the self-conscious best friend I’m trying to comfort than my actual mother. I know it’s really horrible to think like this but…I’m just sick of my mom’s problems sometimes. It’s irritating. And you might think “Oh my god that’s so insensitive!” But…come on man. If you lived with my mother for well, all your livelihood, and had to deal with her bull crap every day, you’d understand. “Mom it’s going to be okay, just like…look up some tutorials or whatever and-“Nope I’ve lost her. She’s now run towards the kitchen, looking at her reflection in the sink. I realize after rolling my eyes again, that I’m still not sure if I’m well, not in the stupid world anymore. I am finally able to walk around and investigate. Though it does take a few awkward zombie like movements away from my mother’s dismay to actually be able to walk. I’m not really entirely sure what to look for. Mostly everything is the same in my home as it is in the real world, so I’d just have to wait to see if the Tribuo academy bus would whisk me away or not to another horrendous day of Laci schooling. I genuinely don’t hate many things or people, but Laci. And whatever you’d call the world I hope I’m out of, those two things, I very honestly hate with all my heart. I approach the living room window, peeking through the half shut blinds. Oh? What is this? It seems as if Satan himself decided that today was the day, oh yes. Today was the day to get back Anna Goddamn Amelia Carter to believing in his presence. Cause my oh my what do I see? It’s the stupid fucking Tribuo academy bus, parked outside of my home as usual, it’s grey and blue exterior staring at me. I’m not sure how I can see emotion through the front of a bus, but boy I swear the little shit is smirking at me right now. I’m not even sure why I don’t just skip school. Maybe in the back of my mind I really do want to go and ‘help out’ in some sort of way, making everyone stare at me and realize their stupidity, but that is way, way, back there in my head. Most of me wants to just slump on this crappy Goodwill sofa and just chill away the day watching cable and trying to stop my mother from crying more. You know what? I think I’ll do that. I take another quick glance at the school bus, almost tempted to flip the smug hunk of metal off, but alas, I control myself. I head to the kitchen where my mom is still whimpering away, and grab a bag of potato chips. I shuffle myself back to the couch and elegantly crash into the scratchy old cushions. I grab the remote and the TV comes on with the greatest of what looks like a Spanish drama. I think I’ll pass. I eventually just settle for watching a half-finished episode of Pretty Little Liars and stuffing in my Utz potato chips with glee. But…it’s that goddamn school bus again. Beeping at me like it’s the boss of me or something. It’s like a piercing gaze every time I peek through the blinds of the window where the bus is positioned. The headlights glare at me and the bus honks once more. “Get in the bus, Anna.” My mom says out of nowhere from across the room, makeup dripping down from her face. “You don’t want to miss school, do you?” She asks. Oh mother, you have no idea. She continues to stare at me, gritting her teeth with annoyance at my lack of response. She points at me and lowers her tone. “You need to get on the bus, and do well, and get us out of here, Anna.” “You’ve got to do this, for your sister, and for me, and for Kristen and all those other people you consider somewhat to be your friends.” “You need to get us out of here Anna you understand?” She raises her chin up, looking at me for an answer. So now my dream family and ‘friends’ want to get out of this ‘world’ if you can even call it that, and are completely aware that I can get them out? …I’m so confused. This shows as I stutter a response. “Uh well I…you…you know about like…?” Nope. Anna no. That’s not how talking works. My mom bites her inner lip in frustration and looks at me once again. “I’ll give you a hint sweetie. The right answer would be ‘Yes I’m getting on that bus immediately my dearest mother Naomi, off I go now, see you soon.’ That’s it.”  I’m slightly surprised at my mom’s sass, and get up to find my backpack. She stops me though, holding my shoulder and murmuring, “We all need you to just wake up, please come back, please.” Tears form in her eyes. I’m not too sure what’s happening right now. She tightens her grip on me, refusing to let go. “I remember when you were born honey. First child, so spoiled, so loved.” “You used to try to pull my nose off if I didn’t feed you fast enough…I suppose that was the first sign of your rebellious nature.” I’m not quite certain if I’m standing or laying at the moment. It sort of feels as if I’m falling while standing up. Added with a deadly, motherly grip on my shoulders. “And I can also remember when you were just a toddler, and Abbey just a newborn, and randomly catching Kurt with different ‘friends’ and just trying not to think anything of it. Wanting to keep my family together. I found his phone though. I wish I didn’t look at it. I really do. There was a whole collection of text messages from some woman named Megan and he just talked on and on about leaving me and in his last sent message he just said, ‘Oh no, don’t worry hon, Naomi and I, we’re pretty much done. Done and gone. We can get together more soon.’ That was followed by a smiley face of course…” She paused. “I took you and Abbey away, divorced his stupid ass. Said the main reason why he cheated was because of how selfish I am. Selfish? You mean looking out for myself as he never did. All my ‘Selfishness’ was just motivated by his lack of understanding for why I never wanted to be without cosmetic products in hands reach from me… he just never understood Anna. Never.” My mother’s whispers and tears slowed down and became more of a gibberish sound than actual language. Her quiet whimpers and lip biting stopped completely, and she then just gave up on talking, crying, or anything it seemed. She just let go of my shoulders, and walked away, blank faced. My dizzy feelings of wondering where gravity was taking me had seceded, and now I was just left by myself with my lonely little backpack, and the scummy school bus outside. As well as my speechless face. I just stood there in lost thought for a few moments before the bus honked its horn again, louder than ever, persuading me to make a small squealing noise and to run out of the house to hop on. I realize after boarding though, that I’m actually in the outfit I wore yesterday. Oh goddamn well. Too late to change. As the bus starts to grind its gears on and drive off, I just can’t help but think…

What the fuck am I doing?




The streets of Baltimore are lit up and people have gathered in clusters burning and looting, singing and screaming, jumping and wailing.

Others ask why the violence, why the protest?

Have you seen what’s been happening to them?

Every day it seems like another man or woman of melanin is shot down with unknown circumstances of who was at fault? The officer or the victim?

And regardless if Mike robbed a convenience store or if Gray ran away does that mean we should resort to shots and bullets and violence? Should we automatically assume that the person killed was a gang leading thug? We never see blacks in a positive light. Never imagining them as doctors or lawyers, teachers or leaders. Just another hoodie wearing, afro American looking at you ‘funny’ on the streets of your city.

When people say “fuck the police” they don’t mean, ‘Fuck the department, fuck the people, fuck the country.” They mean, “Fuck the system that’s killed my friends and my family, and fuck the injustice and the unanswered questions that haunt my dreams.”

Fuck the media that’s killed our hope and our perspectives of a good, hardworking black man. Fuck the fact that white kids are told that the cops are there to help and black kids are told to approach with caution. And to keep their hands out of their pockets, Always be respectful even if they aren’t. Listen to what they say, even if it’s against the law. Keep your head up and smile, speak clearly. Never talk back or question what they’re doing.

Fuck the notion that no matter how rich you get, no matter how kind and caring you are, everyone’s just going to see you as another big scary black man.

It’s a built up frustration in the nation that we live in. That keeps happening over and over and never stopping. The list keeps compiling, as meanwhile in hell the devil is creating another special parking spot for a neglectful cop that is detached from his neighborhood, works for himself and not for the people, and adds to the system of corruptness with his gun always out so afraid of these ‘animals’ he calls them, challenges them to come at him, never aware of how much he over-escalates these situations.

Every shot that is heard, ever taze and kick and hit that is done, will be the echoing of a twisting handle of a jack-in-the-box slowly creeping up to the moment it’ll pop up. Pushing down people for this long and killing them and profiling them and blaming them will only go so far before they launch up and express their hatred. The hatred you planted the seeds for. The hatred you watered and left in the sunlight, carefully fertilized and checked all the time. The hatred you harvested and sold to the news as a just another thug and just another trouble maker. Just another youth down the wrong path learning his lesson in heaven. This is the true definition of frustration. Frustration and oppression and exhaustion all mixed into the most hellish cocktail in history.

The people shouldn’t fear their protectors and it is as simple as that.

-Rest in Power Freddie Gray

To my future child

To my future child,

I never quite ushered the thought of what would be in-between your legs. I just knew that whatever they were, I would love you the same. Before I thought about the color of your eyes or the length of your hair I knew that I would love you the same. Before I thought about you playing with dolls or trucks, I knew that I would love you the same.

Before it ever came to my mind that maybe one day you would walk back and forth tears developing in your eyes so afraid for no reason to say the simple words “I’m gay.” I knew that I would love you the same. Before I ever wondered if you would tell me your desires to wear high heels and make up, or hide your breasts and cut your hair, I knew that I would love you the same. If you looked in the mirror and thought about how others would not love you for your larger thighs, your small shoulders, your rolled stomach or that butt you call gross, I knew that I would love you the same, and that I would most definitely take care of the ones that would not.

Before I ever contemplated that you might not ever marry or have children of your own, that you might not like anyone in ‘that way’, I knew I would love you the same. Before I thought about if you would bow to your God on a rug or clasp your hands together leaning on your knees in prayer, if you would look to the skies pondering if there was really anyone up there, or deciding there was nothing at all, I knew I would love you the same. Before I thought about the tone of your voice or the clothes you would wear, the people if they’re would be more than one that you’d adore, I knew I’d love you the same.

Whether I looked down and saw the two lines on a stick or flew from some place else in the world to come get you I knew that I’d love you the same. Though filled with disappointment and sleepless worried nights, imagining a needle in your arm or a collection of empty bottles, I knew I’d love you the same. Before I ever uttered the words “What do you want to do when you grow up?” I knew I’d love you the same.

Too many broken children rejected and torn down by the ones that were always supposed to stand by them roam the streets wondering if their life was ever worth anything at all. Poking their feet at the pavement and kicking rocks into the road, waiting for a truck perfect enough to carry the load of their sprint into the headlights, in their minds they think of how selfish they are to ruin another man’s life with the death of there own. But who would really care anyway? He would go to therapy, he would get better. There was after all, people at his home that will comfort his distained whimpers of fear and regret of ever stepping in the truck and turning on the ignition. Lonely at the edge of a roadside, home alone with a gun, noose, or bottle of pills, knowing that the ones they have grown up with and love so much, will never love them back because of what they simply are.

Before you ever smile at the thought of having a child, one of your own to care and love, will you love them the same if they aren’t what you really dreamed of?

(c)2015 theworldofmywriting

Please do not under any circumstance, copy or claim this work as your own.


Snow Dog

The flakes of white that occasionally fall from the sky, excite children and dogs a like. With a snowy muzzle and double fur coat, this Labrador is ready for a long play session in the 6-inch fricken snow.

Just look at this magnificent beast.




Fuller of life

Every time a smile grows on your face, your skin grows a little bit wiser. A little bit older. A little bit fuller of life. When your eyebrow raises up, you gain another answer, another thought. And your skin gets a little bit wiser. A little bit older. A little bit fuller of life. Every freckle and every mole a mark of life, every scab and every scar. The little bits of cellulite and stretch marks. An indicator of what you’ve given me. My life. Every grey hair you gain, another display of every stressful moment you’ve been through, that you’ve survived. Another year another couple of silver hairs to admire. Just a little bit wiser. A little bit older. A little bit fuller of life.

Thank you for your love Mutuhemreh (Mother)