Fuck YOU

This is a note to the reader of my blog who feels it necessary to forward my posts to the attention of my partner.

Fuck YOU.

You, no doubt, want to stir up the muddy sediment of insecurity and fear in the hopes of what? I’m still not clear since you have nothing to gain, and a friendship to lose.

FUCK YOU.

I get that, sadly, you are one of those people who are never happy unless you are causing turmoil in the lives of others, and that your penchant for nosy-parking, gossiping, maligning and defaming character is on par with your lack of self-respect and ignorance, but honestly and with reverence I sincerely say again and again…

FUCK YOU!

You’re a coward.

And a cunt.

And a poor excuse for a decent human being.

You’re the puss of the infected thing that feeds on the pond scum.

Seriously, bitch.

Move on with your sad little pathetic life.

And leave mine alone.

Aaaah. I feel better now.

Every now and again you need a good rant!!!

Releasing and moving on.

Namaste. 🙏🏽🌼❤️

Have a nice day!

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Battlefield

I stand at the edge in despair. Dejected. Confused. Alone. A sullen spectator to the fading magnificence of my literary world. Ravaged and ruined by the conflict of rules contained within simple words of caution. A lone witness to the power in the invisible placement of intentional boundaries.

I move. I shift. I aimlessly drift. Wide-eyed and helpless, I circle the perimeter. Careful not to disturb the susceptible surface of this unforgiving ground. I know the explosive consequence of misstep. I want. I feel. I am bursting. But I have no syllabary with which to translate my anxiety.

I see them out there. In the field.

My words.

The soldiers of my thoughts. Deliverer of my emotions. Protectors of my heart. Of my soul. Dueling and jousting. Bleeding and crawling. Fighting their way through the stifling oppression of the unimagined mind. Racing to reach Me. Fierce in their determination to Be. Certain of their right to exist. Within. Me.

And they are correct.

The violent passion. The desperate brokenness. The blinding love. The debilitating hurt. The exultant joy. The immaculate, beautiful messiness. This is the stuff that fuels my muse. The responsive sensations that inspire me to write. And to write well I need their wild abandon to corse through my blood and stir the sensitive tremor in my hand.

I see them out there. In the field.

My words.

And they are correct.

I need them. Unequivocably.

And all the frenzied intensity that inspires them into life.

Writer. Artist. Lover.

I thrive in the emotional spaces. Between.

There is no other way.