Stained White Blouse


Regret is the stained white blouse of innocence. And I know this because I’ve seen it discolor right before my very eyes. I’ve seen a child grow into a man as he learned of pain and sorrow through drooping eyes and death of love. His skin now wrinkles and his hair grays as the sorrow in his eyes are permanently imbedded there. And though he smiles from time to time, experiencing the true joy of a hardy laugh and a blue sky, he always falls asleep in his dreary gray, wooden, mold scented room with nostalgic thoughts in his head. Though he doesn’t cry; and I’d say what makes him a man is his acceptance of what he cannot change. I am a woman of old age and I envy this ability, as I often cry over lost time.

This stained white blouse is the regret of innocence. It was once a beautiful pure white garment. But over the years, as time helps to change many things, it has yellowed in the sun and wrinkled with the wind. The breeze still blows it easily, as it ripples on the clothesline; but it’s a bit more brown, from spills of hot cocoa and dried up tears. Bleach can only do so much for purifying a no longer innocent cloth. And over the years I have wondered and cringed and hoped that maybe someday, somehow there will be a way for me to go back in time to prevent and release the stains, and to once again wear a guiltless, irreproachable white cloth.

This man that I have seen grow, is not a sad man. But as my grandson, you can tell that he thinks and dreams of a life of possibility while physically being trapped in a world that is restricting on the heart and lungs. Our souls are very much alike. We understand the impossibility of possibility, and we can only control ourselves, though actions of others can still hurt us and push us down. But if there were a way for this stained white blouse and this regret of lost time and embarrassment to become a bloodless ivory sponge once again, it is in the hands of others. Accept us, and tell us we are perfect.

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Build Me a Flower

In my lyric writing class we are building rhyme tables and sketches for titles. This week my teacher gave a great, inspirational reply to my lyric sketch, and just maybe helped me become more aware of the message I’m trying to send, understanding the “vision” and story further.
Take a look!


Build Me a Flower (lyric sketch):

We are a fragile and delicate and our love is the same. But why can’t we be something stronger? I pick petals off of flowers saying, “he loves me, he loves me not,” over and over again. Sometimes I’m confused by us, but I know that flowers can’t tell my fate. We’re delicate and fragile like a flower, but build me a flower that won’t break, one where the petals won’t fall even if I try to pick them. That’s the love I want, a flower with unbreakable petals; you and I could do all evil and horrible things in the world and we’d still love each other, we’d still jump into each other’s arms at the end of the day; a love where we can do no wrong because our wrongs are completely right. Build me a flower like that, and I’ll build you one that’s exactly the same.


“Yeah, nicely done, nicely done. So I think that there’s interesting collision between building, which is industrial, which is man-made, it makes me think of concrete-cold, lifeless. And then this idea of flower, which you said is fragile, it decomposes, it returns to nature quickly, it’s organic. So it’s opposite of this industrial theme of build, and I wondered, somehow nature isn’t enough. What naturally happens, this fragility, that you’re shying away from it; and I wonder how that fragility could serve this love. How does the fragility make the flower special? How does it allow it to adapt? and maybe go on and on, and renew itself, rather than something built that never has the power to change? I also wonder if some of those thoughts are also involved in this idea that part of you wants to build a flower, but you know you can’t force it, you can never create something as lovely and organic as a flower on its own; but unfortunately you have to also deal with the fragility that the flower carries. I think your ideas here are just fantastic, “a flower with unbreakable petals”, that’s really neat, but, you know, who would want a concrete flower? In the end, it’s a dream that can’t materialize. So I think it’s a song about desiring something unchanging, something you can depend on, something you know will be there. But by doing so, you’re squelching the life out of it. So I think that’s really something I can connect to, and I think that the core idea there, the message that you want to get across is in that, so really lovely.”

Other great posts:

Guilty Ungratefulness

The truth is deep; the roots plant themselves in wet cement; and once it finally dries, it rips itself out, leaving you with crumbled bits of sharp concrete; and the proof of its existence is not in the ruins, but in the face of emotion and feelings. Though maybe that is why, the wound of emotion lets you know that you are alive, and sometimes it is a lovely, delightful wound, and other times not so much. But with feeling, we know we are living.


“Our friendship was rain that helped the green grass grow, with the smell of dampness and sprouting in the air. But the rain of our friendship grew cold and dry, and we’ve been in a drought since the beginning of May” you think to yourself. You remember all of those orange autumn months. She harassed you endlessly until you finally gave in. You thought if you sat there and listened to her babbling mouth just once that she might have left you alone. But she didn’t leave you alone and you sunk deeper into trancelike state of the “friendship”, with the delusion that she really cared. You opened up your soul in hopes that her eyes wouldn’t be judgmental. You laughed and cried together for years, and then she changed. Suddenly her eyes and her mind began judging, and the delusion of her safekeeping began to drift away steadily, like a tide drifting out to sea, slowly and then all at once, deserting you in confusion and loneliness. Her awful words sting you like the stripes of a yellow and black bee; all you are able to do is be honest and to put everything on the line, and you trusted her with your feelings; but she’s always have been living in a dreamland. You trusted her- with your bare feet on hot coals- you opened up and told her things that you didn’t want to tell her, that she forced you to say. And suddenly you realize all the manipulation and heartache that she caused you, one piece after another chipped away. Her approval and lack thereof, kept you going, she took complete control over your life. You now leave with regrets and like your heart just ripped from your chest because she, sweet innocent girl whom nobody dislikes, is a devilish monster deep down inside that can tear you apart at the seams. You give her your trust, and she’ll make your blue eyes cry as she takes all that valuable information you didn’t want to share with her to begin with, and use it against you, to hate you and to tear you down; but it will be to vicariously live through your orange, autumn heart, only to leave you stranded with questions and rotten, frozen fruit when winter and the snow come around. She’ll leave you wondering and questioning yourself, crying and feeling guilty, although she is the one that brought you harm.

Elastic Ropes and Dead Needles

The needle was dead and the heroin sky was coming undone. I fought the pain of the gray and cloudy sky above me that was ripping the heart out of my chest. Only $700 wasted and shooting up the shit, but the supply was gone and I was in debt. A broken love triangle on every corner of the shape. And even though the sky slowly became blue, I was addicted to needle of love, the one who had given me the attention when I needed it. But it’s a lot of crap, and we shared the needle and we both got the disease of love. But it was fighting through the slamming doors and the peeling paint from the walls between us. I thought one day “Is this happiness?” because I was happy but I was angry, and you were in the other room, caged up and getting wasted, and I was sitting on a broken recliner with my head in my hands, thinking that maybe this wasn’t the answer. That maybe the darkness we’ve enveloped ourselves in was maybe just a shell we were hiding in. The blue sky and birds chirping outside was a pretty sight, when I stood at the open door, looking at the green. But I always got pulled back into the dark and dingy hole, the cave of ignorance and escape, and for just another few moments I’d bleed faux joy. And I’d wake up the same, the pain of being broke, and on the elastic rope of happy anger that you had been letting me play for the past two years.

Self-Reliant Shoulders

The only person that can be relied on is yourself.


The way that I’ve been able to describe this to myself is as follows:

When you rely on someone, it is essentially the same thing as leaning on their shoulder or crying on their shoulder (whichever fits best in the circumstances of course).

When you rely on someone, there is a great chance that they will fail in supporting you, mostly because the majority of people have self-important personalities. By relying (leaning) on them, you give them the power to hold you up or let you fall.

By relying on yourself, the most trustworthy person you’ll ever know, you take the power in your hands. You have the sole responsibility of holding yourself up and taking the consequences when you fall.

On a tangent, it is not wrong to say that sometimes it is a decision between embracing the the heaviness or allowing that heaviness to crush you. It’s not always a bad thing to be crushed, it increases your stamina, but you’ll still feel it emotionally.

Back to the main idea though, I don’t think that relying on yourself is such a horrible strategy to get through life.

1. You won’t need to worry about how you are going to make it through on your own, because let’s face it, at some point in life we will have to deal with it on our own.
2. Self reliance hence allows yourself to be in control of your own life. (Cmon, don’t lie to yourself! At some point you’ve all leaned on someones shoulder and have gotten hurt because we put as much faith in them as we have in our own conscience).

I’ve recently been thinking about the idea of “it’s okay to lean on somebody. It’s okay to let go.” But I always find that “relying on somebody” has an underlying negative connotation. I could rely on someone and subject myself to their abuse of that power, or I can rely on myself and take responsibility for whatever happens.

That may just be why so many people rely on others; they’re afraid to take responsibility of their life, their actions, and ultimately their outcomes. Why are we so afraid? That’s the next question… though another thought for another time.

Constantly, many of us are facing these battles within ourselves and we rely on others to be there for us. Sometimes they’re there, and other times not so much. It’s great when they’re there, and when they’re not, we feel worthless.

Lately I’ve been relying on people more than usual, and I’ve noticed that I’ve changed. I used to be self-reliant, I had this confidence with me, I was in charge of myself and I could control the outcome (obviously to an extent).

But there is something about human nature that makes us want to rely on others. We want to feel important, and we want to feel that people care about us. And there is absolutely nothing wrong with that. We all want it, we just don’t all seem to get it, and I’ll attest to that; life isn’t fair, but I suppose that it’s a heaviness we need some sort of reliance to compensate for. And just maybe that is the only reason why we need to rely on ourself and others at any given time. But I will vouch for the confidence and power that one gains from being self reliant, and nothing that can make you’re life feel more balanced and sturdy.

Lean on another’s shoulder when you have to, but don’t forget that you have shoulders to0, and they’re stronger than you think they might be.

#StrongShoulders #SelfReliance #IAmStrong

True identity

I was thinking about how everyone tells me that I’m miserable and that I don’t really know what I want and that I’m not happy. but it occurred to me that they really don’t know what they’re talking about. I’m on a journey, and this journey is allowing me to find what makes me happy. Before, I was all caught up and locked inside of a box and I would complain and everyone told me to do what makes me happy but it’s a process and people couldn’t understand why wasn’t happy with what I had. but it wasn’t for me and what I found was that I really just needed to let go of everything that I’ve been doing, all the things that don’t make me happy I need to let go of. and now people are complaining because I’m not doing what they want me to do and I’m not who they thought I always was; except the person I was, was locked inside of a box and I’m much happier being free from the everyday habits that I picked up while I was inside of that box. I still don’t know what I want and I still don’t know what makes me happy but at least I know what I don’t like and what I don’t want. It just amazes me how people expect you to be a certain way because of the way that you grew up, even if that isn’t who you really are. They tell you to do what makes you happy but then they want you to be the you that they envisioned. Nobody knows me better than I know myself, and it really bugs me when people pretend they do or they really believe that they do and they don’t. Only I know myself and nobody else can find or tell me what makes me happy. The things that I’m into, what i like, and what I don’t like- that’s what makes me who I am. And when somebody tells me that something “just doesn’t seem like your style, that’s not really you” well it is me because I like it and I’m not going to be their version of myself because that’s not who I am. There is only one true version of myself and that is the one that I’ve created. Whether you or anybody else can see that, whether or not you like that version, it doesn’t matter if you do or you don’t, because I’m going to be that person anyway.

Perceptions and Paintings


Painting by: Leonid Afremov


Going into a museum, I have the mentality of getting bored easily. So I roam around and scan all the paintings and sculptures until I find something that catches my eye. But when something does catch my eye, I stay with it for a while. I look at it from all angles and try to decipher it’s meaning. I try to step outside the box of open-mindedness to something maybe I missed. I let it take me over and really impact me, and if I’m lucky enough I’ll find a second work of art in the same day. But only then, when I’ve found the work of art, after I’ve gone through it over and over in my mind, do I look at the label. Because the label is not the art. And though so many artists and historians and preservationists want me to believe that “this piece of art was made to depict this and this is the meaning of it”, I just can’t agree. That may very well have been the artist’s intent, but as an onlooker of a time that I don’t understand, I’ll always-just like all of the other uninformed onlookers-interpret the work in my own way. I won’t necessarily be looking for the specific details of timeframe or the techniques that were used to make it a great work of art, I’ll just be attracted to the artwork that speaks to me, I’ll be consumed by my own perception of the image. The artist will paint one thing, and the historians will label it’s integrity and meaning, but only the onlookers of the still event will give the artwork it’s value, at least that’s everyone I’ve known.
But what if I looked at the label first. My whole concept of the viewer being the true artist and the critic go away. I see the label and there I have my first clue to what the artist actually meant to portray. I then look at the picture in a restricted way that keeps my mind in check and my imagination in shackles. The work still impacts me, but in the way that the artist wanted it to be, or maybe what the historians want me to believe the work is about. It’s a conflict of interest, knowing but not really knowing what I am looking at. I use the history I know of the piece to determine more clues to reach the overall picture. And sometimes I think that maybe there is no deeper meaning, the artist just wanted to paint a scene that he/she thought to be beautiful for whatever reason. But because I read the label first, I’m not allowed to think that for long, because I already know something about it. But I suppose without the label or history of the artwork that I know something about it already, just by looking at it. And that it doesn’t really matter whether I read the label first or not, because I’ll be impacted just the same. It’s not necessarily a thought, but a feeling.