Once upon a time, a penis was born. He was a sad little penis and he could not talk nor snore. He could only write words on the sheets of his mind. But every time a white liquid bursts out of his body, [that he thought was just pure shit] he realized that thinking too much is too messy. Yeah, messy but it tempted him to do it all over again. He was a writer after all and he was not just a crazy little penis waiting to be just inserted in someone else’s hole. he was something else.
To be a writer is to masturbate. You cannot masturbate out of nothing, thus, you cannot write out of nothing at all. When I write, I stain lost pages, I drink the elixir of life. I understand deaths, half deaths, senseless deaths. I write pains because it is only in those sheets that they can get stained, and sooner they will no longer inhabit my head. I write based on how i see the world and how he world wanted me to see itself. I become a writer when there is enough reason for madness and temptations to hate and to love.
I practice masturbation. I practice writing in my mind and let them crawl in the tip of my fingernails. I form cobwebs in my papers. I do not want to write when i have positive feelings because they kill my pain to write. I listen to music, those songs that had images that reflect emotions.
And so most of my poems ejaculated out of rage and seductions of pain and bleeding heads. I am mesmerized by the idea of forming relationships and losing them at the same time. I want to understand how they die in their own beds, shirts, bellies and hands. Most of my speakers are ordinary women struggling in the world of their own relationships. I find my theme common and so in any possible way, I want to explore every fiber of a relationship to taste them fully in my own mouth.
And to that, may I live forever.
I'm a wannabe blogger who loves John Rambo, Dr. Martens and everything 90s, an annoying mother and a jealous fan of A.M. Homes.
About The Blog
This blog is a reflection of my struggles to stay sober, creative and relevant for the past eight years. I deal with my very minor (perhaps imaginary) social anxieties through blogging about beauty products that I bought compulsively and conquering awkward feelings whenever I face the camera to awkwardly share my fashion outfits.
It's orgasmic to finally let go of my thoughts and live different lives. Adios. May you find solace in other realms of the universe.