So here I stare at my screen once again trying to make sense why I decided to start a blog in the first place. I read over my first post and think to myself yeah well that was a dandy idea but I don’t really think I have anything to say. For some reason, that desire to tell my story simply vanished; disappeared along with every scar of self proclaimed voice that I haven’t really found. I don’t even think I’ve started looking for it.
But that’s the thing. I deny myself the chance to write down the ideas and feelings that buzz back and forth through my mind and drill the back of it at such a pace that I’m surprised I don’t have a crater at the back of my head. I deny them because writing them down makes them real; my specialty if throwing my feelings away when they become too much. Wash down the memories by pretending they don’t exist. I lie to myself when I say, “Today is the day that I’ll narrate the joys or the tumbles of my week,” simply because I convince myself mid post that my words aren’t worth it or that if I complain too much I’ll turn into my mother.
The thing is, today actually is that day. Today I restructure this thing to something that looks more like something that will look more like journal than anything else, my poetry will still be here, it’ll just be moved to a different tab. I apologize to those who might find this recount of my days as boring, and to my family because they’ll pretty much be fucked over because of this. I also apologize to everyone I mention. You’ll all a part of my life, and I know people will get hurt along the way, but this is my story: dysfunctional family included. The fact that so many of the people I know, know about this site probably won’t help either.
Oh well.
Here goes
Get ready for useless stories every Sunday at around 5


My goal of writing a post every Monday has become a complete failure. What can I say, me and deadlines just don’t mix when it comes to inspiration. I don’t know what is happening to me lately that I can’t get inspired. Maybe it’s because I feel under complete control and words can’t seem to flow through my inner core up to my hands to express the feeling of utter helplessness and fear of simply thinking. That, or I’m simply coming down with a heavy does of seniortis and I have no interest other than Netflix, and that’s not a very good source of inspiration. 

But seriously, I feel straight out of the book 1984 where even having thoughts that are remotely out of line are punished. I can’t have a conversation with someone without being careful with how I word things because I might be taped. Psychological trauma has forced me to think things and say things I wouldn’t say otherwise, to act differently. As I write this post I’m terrified that it might come back to haunt me, but I have to figure out if someone she has found my one true escape. I do realize all this sounds outlandish, straight out of a bad suspense movie, but I can’t help but feel my heart and opinions being mangled by the one person who swore would protect them. Screw healthy formation, if you want someone to follow your set opinion as to how they should act, make them fear their own existence. 

It’s become such a pull on me that I’m afraid to fall in love, because I know no one will ever be good enough, no one will ever bring back the sense of safety that she’s taken away. 

It’s no joke that as I type these words my heart races in utter anxiety that after this post I’ll be annexed from my first amendment right. 

El diablo cajuelo que me atormenta

“Porque nadie se tiene que dar cuenta”, 

He said with that wicked smile,

That got me every time, 

And melted me away,

Como burbujas en una pecera,

Que desaparecen mientras te ahogas. 

And he keeps me down, 

Doesn’t let me slip away,

Making me believe that I was safe between el merengue, 

Y el suspiro,

Not realising that I didn’t matter.

Never did.

Not to him.

My carnaval un 27, 

Became el diablo cajuelo que me atormenta,

Cause you pull me in with your color,

And power,

But scare me with it just the same. 

Y si te veo en La Vega corro,

Cause I can’t take another blow. 

So I loose myself in the rum,

Y escucho una bachata en tu honor, 

Cause your memory I can’t let go of.

From childhood comparsas,

To movies en el malecón.

From stolen kisses that felt right, 

To intentions that felt wrong. 

And those secret glances en La Romana 

That let me forget I was raised in la Pedro Enrrique, 

And reminded me that I’m more that who I seem to be,

But made me forget that who I was, and hope to sill be is strong

All on my own. 


Pain is relative

Dedication: To my fading self worth


Pain in relative

And as it burns through your memories

It becomes a part of you

A scar that you know like the back of your hand

Chemical burn that you learned to caress

And is always there when you’re alone

Cause the skin is so vile

And the scar is so great

That no one will want to hold you with your crippled emotions

And the solution would be to deal with it like the dead

Going back to those few moments

Very few unforgotten smiles an whispers

But you think it’d be best to deal with it like the living

It’s the solution of the strong

Because you have to be stronger

You can’t let the burning desire

Of crashing into vice consume you

So you deal with it like the living

Having it square in the face

As a reminder

A reminder that redemption won’t save you

And damnation is imminent

Damnation caused by your desires to be

And live in a way you believed to be beautiful

But in fact is just a tunnel thats getting narrower

And there’s no way out of it

So you drown in the vinegar at the end of it

To nurture

To feel numb

To not care

And then, you’re strong

In this context “strong” meaning empty

Cause you’ve hit rock bottom


No one can ever hurt you again

Revolution of the Hopeless Romantics

As I take a stroll down memory lane 

I run into the corner of nostalgia and broken hearts 

And run into the ghost of the past 

That leads me down three sharp turns 

And I end up un the end of Bull Shit Ave.

Right where it meets with Honesty Hour Street 

I’m faced with a huge cement bunker 

At the top in huge letters it says

“Institute of higher love”

I walk right up to it high and mighty 

With my heart on my sleeve 

And my dignity hanging by a thread 

Holding on to my independence

Can’t loose it in the mind games 

Can’t loose myself in the secret glances 

Or in the hand holding 

Or in the full words with empty meanings 

I can’t loose myself 

Cause I’m burning this place down 

From the inside 

And watching the false hope and promises of all the aching hearts 

Burn up in the smoke of the revolution  


It’s not every night that one of your best friends calls you to tell you he has a gambling problem.

I picked up my cell just like any other night, usual phone call from someone I consider to be my older brother. He didn’t even say hello and just blutered out a hasted phrase, “I have a gambling problem and I just lost everything I had left.” I’ve never felt my heart sink so low so fast, and not only because of his problem, but because I found no words to say. That had to be the first time that I didn’t – and I still don’t – have any advice to say to someone I care about in regards to facing their problem, and the frustration is unbearable. Yes, he is an idiot and yes, he brought this on himself because he has no reason as to why he would need to gamble pretty much his life, but he did. And I can’t do anything about it other than worry.

There is no feeling that compares to hearing genuine fear on the other side of a phone line. It’s kind of feeling chills down the spine, but with a sinister connotation and a taunting from every hair that raises from the neck  that seems to laugh and say “There’s no hope for him anyway so why do you even care?” Unfortunately I can’t bring myself to not stress about his issue, but at the same time I know it’s something he has to deal with on his own. 

I’m still shaken by his voice. He’s 18! He shouldn’t be worried about debts to well, certain kinds of people – and I really do hope he exaggerated that phrase of my overactive imagination is getting to me. All I can do is wonder how he fell so far and how the hell can I help to pull him out of something that could end up suffocating him. The saddest part is I know how he fell, sadder than that is that it’s probably my fault as much as any of his douchy friends. He was never one to have much, but all his friends do, and as much as he convinces himself that it doesn’t matter, I know he cares. Apparently betting and gambling was the only logical way for him to make enough money to be on the same level and the asses he calls friends. The things I’ve said to him haven’t helped at all either. 

I’m not sure what he got into exactly and I’m scared for him.

And that’s all I can be. 

Death of 2014

You know how they say life flashes before your eyes right before death? Well today my life in school flashed before by eyes when I walked in as a senior. I really do hope that this does not mean that senior year will be the death of me.

Maybe, it’s the death of my life as just a child, now I’m stepping up to being a child with just a bit more on her plate. Maybe it’s the death of my indecision, considering I have to have a decision on pretty much my life in about a month. Or maybe, it’s just the death of me because I’m pretty much going to drown in all the work I’m going to have.

Or maybe I should just murder all my horrible thoughts right here and look at my next year in a positive manner!

Yeah well, maybe not.

Fear makes me think of the worse, so when the worse doesn’t happen, I’m happy with what I get. Just a little fun fact about me and my self-content trick.

All I know is, I’m a senior today, in three months I’m 18, in 4 my applications will be sent, in about 5 or 6 I’ll know where I’m going to college and after that well

Welcome to the resurrection