Love: Expressed Through Open Palms, Closed Fist, and Tight Lips

Am I worse?
Do I hit harder, if not literally, figuratively?
Do the imprints last longer?
Do I say sorry?
Am I like him?
Am I worse

I don't want to be like that.
I can't be like that.
I am nice.
I am kind,
But my hand hit her skin.
Am I worse?

What kind of mark did I leave?
I see your face frozen in shock,
In pain,
In front of me.
Can I be becoming this monster?
Can I feel this rage boiling inside of me for no reason?
Can I feel this hatred boiling inside of me,
Exactly where love should be?
Will I be an empty chasm, like him?
Will I be worse?
Am I worse?

I don't want to be like that.
I love you.
Open palmed,
I know it didn't sting your flesh,
But I can't see your heart.
I can't see the heart that I already know is bruised, broken, and cut.
Did I make it worse?
Please tell me that you didn't see him when you looked at me,
Tight lipped,
Angry Eyes,
Open palm.

I know what it looked like,
The monster inside.
I've seen it for too long.
Tight lipped,
Angry Eyes,
Closed Fist.
Another gash sliced through your heart.
Please tell me this one wasn't deeper.
Please tell me this one wasn't worse.
Please tell me this one wasn't the worst you've ever felt.
Please tell me you'll forgive me.

I promise I'll never do it again.

Tight lipped,
Angry Eyes,
Open palmed,
Closed fist.
We are the same,
Aren't we?

Curly Hair is NOT all that it's Cracked up to be

First off, the title looks messed up because I was trying to decide whether to capitalize every letter, or to leave the smaller words capitalized, or only capitalize the first word. It's messed up. End of story.

Anyhow, I know most people think curly hair is amazing, and whenever I wear my hair out people are always like, "OMG! Your hair! It looks so amazing!" (I think that's an accurate example of what most people sound like, acronym use and all.) Let me clarify, if my hair is out a good couple of inches, it was because I was too lazy to tame it and/or it wasn't going to let me tame it. You see, curly hair is like a cat, sometimes it just wants to be left alone, and at other times, it's really friendly and does exactly what you want. When I have my hair in no tame mode, and I get all these comments about how beautiful it looks, I think my hair begins to get a little bit of an ego. What do I mean by that?  Have you ever tried to tame a curly mane that's been out all day? It's impossible without an arsenal of hair products! It's like WWIII. You might as well give up the rest of your night unless you want to do a bun, and even then you'll have to wrangle it into a giant scrunchie. Curly hair is basically a giant brat that has nothing better to do then screw with your day. Well, that's my rant. If you agree with me, or just plain liked it, you should check out Authoress' blog: Miss Snark's First Victim because she's pretty awesome.
Thanks for reading!

Liking vs. Passion

If you've read my other post, you'll notice I've mentioned: a) I have no idea what to do with my life b) I want writing to be a career.

I feel like that's the case for most writers, if not all writers. I think we all can agree that we want to become authors so our voices can be heard (or at least so that our writing can be read). One thing I'm noticing about me is that writing is the only thing I'm truly passionate about. I can tell because out of the ten zillion (slight over exaggeration) things I have to do tonight, (mainly because I've been procrastinating all day, mostly while messing with blogger's template) I choose to do this.

Ok, let's take for instance ASL. I like/love ASL. It is an amazingly beautiful language that I feel very blessed to be able to take a part in. I have met so many amazing people that I could've never become friends with without ASL, and I am relatively fluent in ASL (when I put my mind to it), and technically, right about now, I should be preparing for a giant ASL lecture thing (for lack of better term), but I'm not. I continue to choose writing and reading over doing what I like.

For my "day job" I'm planning on doing something in the medical field most likely forensics (unless I change my mind, again.), but as I was reading into becoming a pathology assistant, a nurse, a physician's assistant, etc. I'm noticing one pattern: I. Don't. Care. Yes, it looks cool. Maybe I'd do it if I had to, but what I really want to do is write, and that's why I'm writing this random rant here because I wanted to share with all of you what was going on in my mind: a conversation about how I have no passion for half of the things I think I want to do. Yep, so...
Thanks for reading!

G.R.A.Y Part 2

So, basically I'm just going to continue from where I left off. Thank you Carol Balawyder for taking the time to look at my blog!
Sidenote: I will try to stop where I originally put page breaks into the story.

G.R.A.Y Part 1

So, this summer, I worked on a new novel that is very unfinished, but something special happened with the characters that I wrote into this story: I fell in love with them. IT WAS (and still is) THE FIRST TIME THAT'S EVER HAPPENED TO ME! While I was editing my first completed novel, I discovered my hidden truth: I loved the content of that book (and still do), but I could care less about the characters. That's what made this book so special for me. So, I really hope that you, random readers, enjoy this as much as I did!

                                                                      Prologue

What is love? In my world, it all started at birth. The earth was taken from the state with luxurious flashing screens in every household and schools for learning, welcoming to every age, to a place where everything was corrupt to bring us to where we are today. The ones I dwell with are manipulators of all that is just. Our world is grey, but this is not how it always was; it was once in beautiful color, but now, we live in broken cities of broken worlds.

 When I was born, the first thing I saw when I opened my eyes was a man, he was strong, tall, lean, and brave with shoulder-length dark grey hair flapping in the breeze onto his olive skin; he was my father. He looked ragged. He had brown streaks across his face, and his hair had grown unruly as he had waited for me to emerge.

The first sound I heard as a minute-old infant was my mother’s scream behind us; my father winced, but he kept running. They had let him go free into the dirt stained world away from the cottage my parents had intended for me to call home.

I was supposed to be their beautiful baby girl, born into a carefree world. Nine months before that they had been living in a perfect little house with a white fence and a golden retriever named Earth in a city not far from where I had been born. But when news spread of what the world had become, they had put giant walls around their city, and all the pregnant women were forced to move to camps. My parents had wanted to care for me, but they had no choice, except to give me up.

 At dark fall, my father slowed at our city’s giant magnificent mahogany doors, and the doors opened for him, well aware of what they were letting in. Inside the gates, it was a brand new world, an almost medieval world, the people, they were selling their goods on the sides of the street, smiling, carefree. The path we walked was separated from the dirt that everything else resided on; it was a carved gravel path; it was in preparation for them to come, my father had known. The buildings beside us were magnificently made as our ancestors had left them.

 When my father walked in, every one of the street people turned, and they rang the streets with applause. He lifted me up for all to see before laying me on the gravel and turning back to the door. The men controlling the doors smiled with tears in their eyes. The doors remained open.

My father hadn’t even walked to the heart of the opening to the world of misery, before I heard those loud bangs, unforgettable, even as a babe. I could swear that my father was smiling when the crimson bolts spread out of him. He fell to the ground, his eyes staring blankly into the light blue sky.

Let me tell you a secret...

What I really want to become is an author. That has always been my aspiration, and maybe I have seconds to keep your attention because you're a busy person that doesn't have time to read yet another random blog, but I want you to do one thing for me: keep reading.

I am a girl with a dream. I don't want to sound to sappy or anything, but I know we each have our own individual goals, and writing is mine. I want to be known. I want to find a publisher, and I really don't care about fame so much as I care about being heard.

I want someone, someday to look at something I wrote and say, "I want to be write something like this someday." Rather than I want to be just like her.

I am someone who cares about life along with a lot of other things. I'm someone who doesn't have the best grammar in the world, but I am someone with passion, and if you've made it this far through this, I'd like to say, thank you. Thank you for supporting a girl with a dream, and giving me a chance even if it is this small insignificant part of your day, and if I can ask of you one more thing; I'd ask if you could take a little more time and read some of my work and just tell me what you think. That's all I ask.