You know your blog is a failure when...

When 3/4 of the hits are from you.

Knowing

I told her. She knows now. Because I told her. I had to tell her. She forced it from me. I wish I didn't tell her. Yet I'm glad I told her. She needed to know. But she doesn't know what to think about what I told her.

She knows now, that my relationships are crap. She knows now how I feel about the "preaching" she shoves down my throat. She knows now how much I despise my conversations with her. She knows.

I told her that every time the storm begins to calm, she brings another one. Arguments with her are the killing thing. They are the weather that creates the storm until I, unable to handle it, simply blow up beneath the pressure. I can't do it. This fighting, this chaos. This false reality I call my life. I just cant do it. Every time I begin to find my way again, She comes back into my life. Forcing me, pushing me, to run away. Its not my fault, it never was, that we just don't get along. How she can deny, any responsibility I know not. We were never meant to get along, I swear I was switched at birth. She doesn't like me, I know that now. I don't like her, she knows that now. How much longer will I have to stay here? How much longer until i'm free? Seriously, how much longer? Living with her is only hindering me. That's all it's ever done. Someone once told me that when a parent is uncertain, the child becomes uncertain. Well THANKS! She got her wish, I no longer know whats right and wrong. I no longer know what I value. What I cherish.

Knowing, if only I knew the truth. If only I knew who I was. Then perhaps, perhaps then I'd know what to do.




And she wonders why I scarred myself?

Writing and Me

Its overwhelming, really it is. I'm sitting here for the third day in a row attempting to think of a workable writing pen name...one that would work for a potential website and a new blog. I really don't want to post THIS blog, I don't want everyone seeing into the chaos I house within my soul, but at times i really feel like I need to. I'm beginning to wonder if I should leave this blog the way it is, or if I should transform it into something different. Something more about me and my writings. I really feel like I need something for my writing, but as I type this out I begin to think that I should just make another one.

Thats where the frustration comes in. What on EARTH do I call it? How do I even begin to attract potential followers, what will I talk about, and all that good stuff. I'm so lost on this, every other aspect about writing I've pretty much thought about, researched, and figured out. This...I have no idea. I never thought about the possibility that the name I use on my books wouldn't be available for blogs and websites. I never even went there, I simply focused on the actual writing. Now, now I don't know.

Writing is frustrating. It really is. I just wish it was simpler.

Mother

You have no idea how long I've plotted my escape. How I beg God to make time fly faster, till the day I can finally flee this life. I'm sorry, I'm just not the daughter you always thought I'd be. All I am is me. That's all I'll ever be. I can't be the picture perfect, darling little princess you imagined. I'm not her. I never was. Why can't you just accept me the way I am? Please, I'm begging you. If only you could see past this mask, this costume...that's hiding the real me. I'm here! I SWEAR! I'm still HERE!

Notebook of Failure

A Notebook. A simple, spiral bound, notebook. Filled, to the brim, with failure. Words, scattered across the pages, depicting the major failure of my life. Words, all they are...are words. Words that describe me in the failure of my life. At my weakest moment. Words that ARE me when I'm sulking at the bottom of my pit. The pit I created, out of self pity. The pit in which I spend a good deal of my time. The same pit, that I've attempted to escape time after time. The pit that I've grown too fond of over the past year or so. The pit, that holds me captive.

Writing/Publishing

I've got to write. I just have to. If I don't have a method for writing before me, especially when I get the itch to write, then I'll like...die. I can't live without writing. Its my life. I LIVE to write. Everything I enjoy is somehow connected to writing. This blog, its writing. Journals are writing. Reading, is so I can write better. Research, so I can write better. Conversations, about writing. Everything is writing this and writing that. I can't live without writing.

Now that I have finished my writing rant time to move on to other things. For example the 800 page novel I have hiding away on my laptop and now my email. :) As well as the many other novels that I have started and are also hiding away, probably never to be heard of or read by anyone. Save for Syra that is. :) Also, I just got back from a Women's Writing Workshop. Talk about amazing, so many things to learn so many interesting things to do now. I'm just dying right now to sit down and write and write and write. I can't even finish this blog properly because I'm just dying to write, to edit my novel and to get stuff ready to actually send off to the publishers. I've learned so much about publishing, and I've got a novel that might actually be able to be published. So, why not go for it? I'm hoping to publish a novel before or during my 19th birth...um...year. :)

Need

I can't escape
this need of mine
lurking deep within
the soul I hide

it holds me tight
binding me day & night
with a strength
i cannot fight

the pain
like a blanket, it covers my life
the hate
fills my vision
the anger
lurks within the shadows
waiting for a chance to be unleashed
the abandonment
lies in wait in the dark of the night
preying on the fond memories
and happy thoughts

i embrace it all
as if i couldn't live without
i embrace
because i cannot face
the life before me

without it
i am not me
i need it
to feel
to be me
to keep the terrors of the dark at bay
to keep my sanity
i need
because without it
i cannot be

I'm tied to it, this need of mine. I cannot escape this need of mine. Without it, I simply wouldn't be me. I can't live without this need, I just can't. Without it, I cannot live. Its me. Its all I know. I NEED to feel the pain, I NEED to feel abandoned and alone. I need it because I feel like without it, I'm not me anymore. That when its gone, the real me is gone. I NEED the scars on my hands, I NEED them to stay. I can't live without them. If they fade, I'll simply make more. I desperately need them, I need them to remind me. To remind me of the pain, to remind me of the hate, the anger, the abandonment. I don't know how to live without my need. I've never had the chance to, I don't know how to. all I know is this. I NEED this.

No one understands how badly I NEED this pain. This hate, in my life. I need something, something to channel all the frustration, anger, and resentment into. I NEED this to make me feel like me. I'm terrified to know, what I'd be like, had these things been taken from my life. Would I be me? Would I be here? I'm addicted to it, I don't just WANT it. I NEED it. Its my addiction. I can't live without it. I don't care how dangerous it is. How deadly it can be. All I know is that without it, I'm simply not me. Everyone has their own addiction. Mine is simply pain. I can't live without pain. I need the pain. Any form of pain is fine. When the emotional, spiritual pain is absent. I resort to new more physical methods. I NEED the scars, they make me feel the pain I'm so terribly addicted to. The pain I feel, as I stare at them is an emotional pain. But for now, it is enough to keep me from the physical. I'm addicted. I'm an Addict. I NEED it. I have to have it. I can't live without it....