We’ve been fishing a well that has no longer any water
One that’s been empty for years with no sign of
Replenishment; just resentment
Filling it’s bucket
With words we use to break hearts and re-open scars
We only attempt to refill with intentions ill

I once fished you from that well
That’s when we fell in love

We dance around it every night
Searching for a way to relieve the sting
Waiting for our love to swell
But our bucket only pulls up lies and
Broken compromise from the bottom of that well-
We used to swim in the same water that we drank
We used to love hard no matter the pain

I once baited you from that well
That’s when I fell into your arms
But now look what we’ve done-
We’ve dried up the pool and never
Replaced the love that we stole
Now our hearts are just as empty as
That fishing vessel

Anyone? Anyone? Bueller?

I’ve been misplacing my anger. Instead of taking it out on my notebook, I’ve been battling in other ways. Instead of letting my boiling blood fuel my pen, I’ve been taking it out on everything else or trying to hold it in.

I can’t do that. I have to embrace my anger and utilize it. 

I don’t believe in “this too shall pass” because the only way to get through something is to push yourself. Perhaps if I believed in God, I would let the outside world guide me - but that’s a false sense of security. Because the world will only guide you to where you will end up naturally - six feet underground. I can’t just let the world lead me to death because as long as I’m breathing, I’m going to reach for something. Complacency and faith are one in the same and I refuse to live lifeless in my body before the earth claims me permanently. 

The only thing we can do is fight. Fight for justice, for freedom, for liberty, equality and for the fucking choice to fight.

I’m tired of sitting still while the wrong people fight the right battles. Or worse, the right people fight the wrong battles. My hands are going to eventually freeze up and all I will have left is my voice. When that is gone, I will be dead. Until then, I have to use every chance that I’ve got to fight the good fight.

…to the girl who could write stanzas and clauses for days and still have something left to say when the pen hit the ground?

What happened to the girl with a head weighted enough, it would actually sink into the pages throughout and at the end of every inanimate day?

The clouds may have been lifeless and resting heavy on her eyelids with regret, but the drama ran vehement on paper. With every loop and dot, her hand made love to the journal pages and she could literally feel her chest stretch as her heart grew fonder of the love she chased after.

I used to be that girl, and perhaps I still am, but I have found that the shifting of the tectonic plates have created crevices for my insanity to escape. Or maybe I am not actually more stable emotionally than I used to be and it’s a great possibility that the conveyor belt beneath our feet has little to do with my inconsistencies, but I can say, with confidence, that I’ve never seen more scribbles and mistakes made on a page of my own.

Nothing seems to fit. Words don’t have a place and puncuation creates only frustration when I can’t find. Just the right…way; to say [how]?? What!

My mind is fucked.

Or not fucked up enough.

I need to dive into this paper. Open up a porthole into this notebook, peel off my ten layers of clothing and apprehension, place my hands above my head and shoot myself off this common plain. 

What would a world of written word look like? Would it only display raw emotion through literal text or would our wordplay manifest into linguistic sex? Would we wrap eachother in chocolate covered euphemisms to sweeten our transgressions? Or maybe we’d create a new progression; a vocabulary vessel with verses vernacular just to show how verbose our verbatim has vecome. Perhaps we would just create our own language. Make up our own words. Use the most uncommon letters in the English articulation zust vor xee vun of vit.

My written world might resemble a little bit of what we call Hell. Where there are seventy-two versions of me and no one else. I could argue with my past while mapping out my future; stitching up new seams just to tear old sutures. All seventy-two of me would climb aboard playground structures - but instead of slides and swings, they’d be late night offerings of confessions and pleas to a God that thirty-three of me doesn’t believe. Another twenty-four would be interchanging doublespeak, rhyming to a rhythm that could never speak eloquently.   Fourteen might be heavily sedated on wine or even whiskey, singing heavy-hearted lyrics and reading politically-loaded poetry in the middle of deserted Wall Street.

But one of me would be still be seated with thirty cups of coffee…writing tales of love and heartbreak to an elevated heartbeat. 

So tell me, what would happen in your written world reality?

So what do people write about at 9am? Do they jot down notes about the morning paper or do they make up shopping lists to work off of later? Do they reflect on late night dreaming or early sunrise glistening? Do they write down prayers to get them through the day or plan out what they’ll say when they are asked to pray at dinner?

Do they start their autobiography or map out a timeline to figure out when their death will be?

Maybe bucket lists of hopes and dreams and wishes for endless possibilities. Perhaps a different kind of list-one that reeks of sadness and grief; reads of regrets and speaks volumes of past mistakes and dreadful pain.

Maybe 9am is different for some. Instead of a new dawn, a new way; it’s the end of a graveyard shifter’s work day. I then wonder, if that’s the case, does dusk and dawn get switched around for the midnight slaves? Does the sunlight bring retrospect while the moonlight breathes life against the night owl’s neck? Does daylight bring a sense of sadness as the night often does for the sunlight goddess?

If so, what do they write about in the dead of the morning? Would they moarn the dark skies that left them high and dry? And if they can’t fall asleep in the sun’s warming reach, what becomes of their mental stability? If Mother Nature created humans to work around the sun’s time rotation, what happens to the deviants who follow the moon’s whispered vibration? Can we adapt to a future of darkness if we’re not nocturnal in essence?

Or does the Mother of mothers put her foot down in our attempt to defy her rules on ground?

Would the night owls one day wake up and realize that the stems of their brains have become confused in their pursuit to fool their need for the radiance of the almighty sun’s heat?

I know that at 9am, in the coldness and bleakness of the winter’s prowess, there is nothing that my skin begs for more than the fervor of summer’s bliss. My toes turn inward, my muscles stiffen, my teeth clench and my circulation slows in preparation for hibernation. 

But we’re not bears, we have work that needs to be done, so it would just be nice if Mother Nature would have equipped us with thicker blood.

…all of my questions at 9am. My mind running rampant before properly caffeinated.

Isn’t it true? What we lack in courage, we make up for in judgement.

Refuse to be a critic. As I grow more confident as a creator, I find more strength in my connection to other artists. As I become more comfortable in my own skin, I see beauty in other’s. We all have something to offer.

I call myself a creator because I can’t quite call myself a musician, nor a writer. I am not just one, I am both. I also create other things, but the most important creation to me is my voice. Not the sounds that come from the vibration of my vocal folds, but the voice as a collaboration of my written thoughts paired with music, used as a tool to reach. My voice and a collective voice.

It’s not totally understood why I place so much emphasis on this voice. Maybe because my entire life I have found it easier to put my pen to paper instead of opening my mouth. It’s been difficult to wear my heart on my sleeve and connect with other’s. Always a communication barrier; a wall of brick and mortar. Although with age, it seems to get easier but it’s still an uphill battle. So for me, it’s pertinent to overcome these obstacles for others and hope that I can overcome them myself.

There is no doubt that I focus my energy on my music and writing even when most probably think that I should be devoting my time to building my business in the salon. But hair is just that: a minuscule form of art that only incorporates a fraction of creativity that my mind and heart can give. It’s my trade. Music is, and always will be, my heart. Writing is my work. Performing is my passion. Connecting to people is my driving force. My work is fueled by the chance to overcome all language barriers to unite souls like puzzle pieces. 

So I am called to share this. I am called to reach out and spread my compassion to other’s. If I can inspire one person to be a better human, to love themselves, respect their peers, love and cherish animals and their relationships and dive deep into their passions no matter what, my work has been rewarded. But the job is never finished - I will work until my hands collapse and my voice box bleeds.

Momentum. Such a great word. Something we must keep. But it must be a controlled motion; a slow, steady burn of a candle, not a holiday sparkler. Those sparklers only come once a year and will dazzle your eyes for a mere 45 seconds until we move onto the next. But that candle? We leave it out year round, adopt it as a daily routine and a regular fixture in our homes. That’s what I want to be. I hope for longevity, not to be remembered as a quick fling. I want to reside in the subconscious of my receivers.

Good work takes time. Hard work is a lifestyle.  Only support from here on out. 

5 of 10. The only constant I have had since I was eleven. Without writing, I can’t tell you the kind of person I would be.

The quickest way to relieve some stress. Thank you, Sparrows.