I have one child who is disabled and 100% dependant on me. She is soon to be 13. My sleep is interupted by thoughts of the future. Hers, mine, ours. Unable to work outside the home I think about what will happen to us when my parents pass away? We live with them. I can't support us on the little bit of disability my daughter recieves. Will I be able to find us a support system? Others who will love and care for my child when I die? Placing her out of my care is that last thing I want to do. I don't have anyone close to me who has experienced the same. The stories I hear of the very few places she could go are not good. I think about what will happen as we both get older and I won't be able to lift her by myself, or transfer her to and from bed.

I find my self thinking of how we could afford a remodel on the bathroom so it is accesible to her and I when she needs a bath. Will her sisters resent her? Will they worry too much about her? How will they mainatain their lives with habing a sister in a facility? Maybe they would want her at home with them. I wold love that but I don't want to put pressure on the kids. I think about having my own room one day. One that I don't have to share with my youngest child. I would really like my own space.

I think about my other two kids and all that they have to give up because I am only one person with alimited income. I pray they remember more good times than bad as they grow up and have families of their own.

As of late I have found it extremely difficult to sit down and write anything that I believe will to some degree surpass my Being, or the fully fleshed out version of myself that exists at this moment. I find myself doing dishonest things in my writing, just yesterday I found myself writing something for the purpose of bashing someone, and trying to start a fiery argument. When I posted it I was not trying to provide any insight that was worthwhile, but listening to the thumping hatred in my head and heart. I prefer to be genuine and honest, that is my mode of being, perhaps not all of the time, but for the most part I strive to achieve these standards.

In my past “Why I Write” I stated that 1) How can you continue writing without direction or reason? 2) You must always be thankful towards those who give you a chance to express yourself.

I believe this is absolutely true, although I have not lived up to this as of late. This piece is to develop my belief that dark things can be used to expose the beauty of Being. I wish to develop my followers’ understanding of who I am and what I believe. This whole concept is based off of one of my favorite writer’s essays, “Why I Write” by George Orwell. In it he mentions that one must know an author’s background in order to understand their motives.

My love for writing was a slow one, at an early age I rarely read, although I did love creating massive story arcs in my mind and with my toys(generally toy soldiers and superheroes). As far as I can remember I always had a little voice in my head that I characterized as my guide, I imagined that my skull was a headquarters for a group of little human beings that helped me through my life. They dictated my actions and words. Oddly I believed that my whole body was like a machine, at one point I imagined the little humans in my head using an elevator to get down to the lower level of my body to fend off little robotic dogs-it was odd~ish. This was something that I imagined up until the age of about 16 maybe earlier. I still have my little human residing in my mind, but I am certain now that it is my conscience.

By the fifth grade I had reached my first real encounter with books and writing. I had a glorious teacher named Ms.Gonzalez, a wonderful new teacher that engaged with my class in such a manner that work was more of an exploration. She truly pushed me and others to read, the first and second book series I finished were because of her. The first was The Chronicles of Vladimir Tod and the second was The Hunger Games. I was somewhat amazed by these books, but the ones that still interest me today are the ones I read in her class and in the school book club. One being Among The Hidden(I believe) by Margaret Haddix and the other being The City of Ember by Jeanne DuPrau. I was amazed by the totalitarian state in Among the Hidden, and the secrecy, it was strange to see how things could get so wrong to the point where a government was willing to limit the number of kids people could have. The City of Ember was a marvel to me, I have always been amazed by cities and the compact drama that occurs within them. Each book stretched my imagination and made me truly visualize the events that occured within the books. My first ambitious piece of writing was one based off the video game Borderlands 2, in which I created a band of characters that slowly united together to fight against the bad guy, that being me. I showed the piece to my teacher which I had written in a green notebook and was surprised to hear her say that she wanted more of one of the characters. I was expecting a beat down, but luckily she gave me a figurative pat on the back and a nice “keep trying kid”. By the end of the fifth grade major changes in my life had led me to what I would like to refer to as my dark days from 6th to 7th grade. It was mainly a major shift from being a clueless 12 year old to a clueless 13 year old with hair and hormones on the fritz. Seventh grade gave me a small chance to write some more in my creative writing class, but it was short-lived. I wrote a story about the Russian Sleep Experiment creepypasta and another one where I wrote a story about a man falling into a ravine and discovering an ancient temple, but in the end it was all just a dream.

By the 10th grade I began a magnificent adventure. I had discovered dystopias, the first being the beautiful 1984. I loved Orwell’s dark and realistic world. From there I moved on to Fahrenheit 451, The Handmaid’s Tale, Animal Farm, The Only Thing To Fear, and later on to Brave New World. I could not help but dig deeper into these books, the way people lived and carried out their day to day actions in a realm where everything was like a boot. They stood up against the hell that ate them alive and did what they could to pursue the truth. I had been deprived for years of books and the worlds inside of them. I looked for guidance in them that I could not find in my fatherless home, books were my teacher. They drove me to find who I was and how I should act. Tenth grade altered my perspective on the world, people believed in me and I began to do so as well. When eleventh grade came around I was embarking on a new adventure, I had read The Odyssey over the summer and a few other books. My thirst for books was growing, by the eleventh grade I had discovered the wonders of prose and poetry. When I went to my school’s south library I had browsed through the poetry section, and found a green book named Leaves Of Grass by Walt Whitman. Whitman completed my voyage for both honesty and character, it was Orwell for truth and Whitman for soul.

I am now in the 12th grade and have lost my momentum. I want to write more poems but I find that doing free verse is not enough. I find myself distant these days from old friends and who I was a year ago. I may have changed for the better but I am stuck in an unknown territory and I do not know whether to swim back or go forward. For now I write for the purpose of helping people transition from hell to some greater purpose, I may not be there myself yet, but I no longer diminish myself at least. I am worthy of walking with God, that is the way I understand it, in other words I deserve the same respect I give to others. I want to lead people through the dark and help them find meaning and to show them that they are not alone.

This is what I will strive to write about for now.

I want to thank the glorious prosers that have supported me both old and new.

Thank you all. Truly, thank you.

@sandflea68

@Mfrobs

@Mnezz

@ParkerProse

@AuroraRaine

@Harry_Situation

@InLoveWithWords

@EstherFlowers1

@Mavia

@Bunny

@AndyBetz

@EmberJoy

@justaperson

@Mazzmyrrheyes

@2Bamboopanda

@Lotusflower

@GaryEnglish

@wetpetals

@whiskeyglitter

@HandsOfFire

@SaffiyaSmith

@RobertDocBarham

@AtomDub

@STBhagyalakshmi

@Hannahvee

@LisaLoveSkinner

@Telka

@QuietSilence

@Mpgsr

@Maggie121402

@OJethwani

@JaneSays

@stupidcupiid

@IntheeyesofMya

@LexiCon

@Love2Write

@Posey

@MeeJong

@TBHughes

@Riley_45

@kinkinkali

@Vlyable

@spearmint

@RyotaFujikawa

@Come_an_go

@Grandiflorus

@AngelicDevil

@ajrfanz

@wordvom

@Carl_Halling

@Cotton_Candy

@Servus

@alesean

@MidnightEmber

@WriterWriter

@Rustknight

@Chidiogor

@Fauxcroft

@mp_writes

@EmotionWriter

@Prosper_C

@m1ck3ysf1st

@ItsMeIAmHere

@DON8_

@Mish36

@Nikstiks

@BeautifulTerror

@thechristo4d

@WhitneyRRoach

@SuzyqQ

@Bridgette

@WPReiley

@Jelenathewriter

@alexcrimson

@AdannaStoute

@Jessica_Galvin

@ajayamitabh7

@Miss_Katherine

@Nyctophile

@JRNorgaar

@TEDA

@RERichardson

@ZevAmon

@mucka90

@JARRAY5

@Ruthlesromantic

@JWolfe

@Dmoral

@Fatima_Zahid

@Cphillips

@TheBookBard

@SheilaVictoria

@BookFool

@LarryD

@princessfay

@MissB

@IkrarHermanadi

@kimmichi

@Simon

@Elisha

@C_Jazz

@Afro

@benquir

@TonyaMicGinni

@serkan

@Clb8963

@Teresalee

@rajarit

@ksveil

@sheiljohnson

@KathrynMcgahan

@VDelehanty

@Sammantha

@whmvideography

@TristenGrace

@BethanyRiggs

@Christyaldridge

@Dmaria50

@Haruyuki

@oceanelise

Sun of mine....

sun of mine!

Let

the towers

rise and shine,

Let

the waves

sink and dive!

Swimming waves

zig

and

zag

like lines in barren street

sands.

Sun of mine....

sun of mine!

Let

the towers

rise and shine,

Let

the waves

sink and dive!

Dreams of wicked

cyanide in

cyan tides.

Arms away,

arms away...

Shake the pain,

shake the pain.

Sand Castles in the City lights

warm and sickening

as the city

life.

Quick Acknowledgements

To Danceinsilence,Mnezz, and Undermeyou for making me want to continue this series, thank you so much.

John viciously slammed his pen against the dark oak desk. The pen immediately was fractured and oozed out black ink as it spilled out from the round chamber leaving dark stains on his crystal nails and on the remainder of his trembling left hand. His dying words on the darkening page were quickly being consumed by ravenous black ink, John instantly snapped and remembered the words he had written before his miniature outburst :“She was heaven, a being of natural gold…”. John’s photographic memory kept his dark nights from being lost in time and kept them entertaining(or at least interesting enough to stow away for the following days and months). His rage was frequent during his writing sessions, but so was his peace. John picked up the corpse of the pen and threw it into the ‘abyss’, or better known as the holy grail of a writer’s thoughts- a trash can. Specifically, a dark metal bin that was slowly being choked out by crumpled white pages.The bin also had a newly added pool of ink from around 6 P.M and the newest from 10 P.M. The night was diving into the vacant room and John was trying to figure out what would happen from here until the sun jumped back up in the sky: one, he could go to sleep(or at least try to), or two, he could continue to slave away at his embracing desk to try to realize some fictitious ideal. John slowly stood up from his desk in search for another pen and some napkins.

John was locked in a writer’s high, strolling along the smooth,creamy pages of his leather-bound notebook. The dark luscious ink made the night spin and spin. A girl had trapped his every thought, he could not push her away, not even by splashing his words onto these tormenting pages.He was in a daze. For two months John had spent every night trying to escape her, she had brown eyes with waving glowing auburn hair and a crescent smile that mimicked the moon’s glow. Every time he saw her he was pumped with mandated pills and bubbling liquids. His dreams were dark paradisal trips that rode him through the wintry pathways of his mind. Nothing could stop him, he was a juggernaut of love shattering through every image and dream he had of her.

It was around 2 A.M when John gazed out into the glimmering city, he had hardly felt the piercing glow that the Legion Towers emitted all through the flying night. His eyes were caving in and beginning to struggle to maintain the harmonious consciousness that worked as his caffeine well into the night. John knew for sure that sooner or later he would have to lay in his despotic bed, but did it have to be now? He was close to realizing his dreams: “her golden eyes were ferocious, she slithered through dark forged dreams unraveling…”. John had cut short the verse, he was furious and heavily fatigued, “I can’t give up now” he thought, but it was no use, it was another failed night; and a horrendous tomorrow awaited him and those he faintly remembered.

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(If you haven’t seen it already, I also have a YouTube account)

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Please check these out if you enjoy my work here!

I looked around. How odd. I was…. no. I wasn’t alive. That wasn’t possible. I remembered that I had stabbed myself. So then I must be dead. But I can move? A ghost, I thought, I am a ghost. The realization jolted me, although it shouldn’t have been surprising. I ran my ghost hands through my ghost hair, both of which had retained their color. My hair was still dark brown and my skin was still peachy tan, even though I could see the outline of the landscape below behind them. Another surprise awaited me as I looked down. I was floating. My feet were hovering several inches over the ground, the grassy field I thought I was standing on was below my feet by several inches, even though I could feel the grass below me. Even as I moved experimentally, I could hear the grass rustling as if I was walking on it. It also wasn’t brushing or disturbing the grass, I could feel it, but my feet were just out of reach of the grass and I had a feeling that if my feet were touching the grass, the result would be the same. A car whizzing past a nearby road snapped me back into my situation. This is no time to live in the past, I chastised myself. It looked like I was at a police station of sorts. It suddenly hit me harder than ever that I probably couldn’t have a normal conversation with anyone - psychic or not - ever again. Being a ghost is a lonely life. I sat/floated on the field below me. The grass looked like a breeze was blowing it where I was touching it, which looked eerie when I looked at the perfectly still grass next to it. I walked off of the field and onto the road next to it, and I got run over by a car. Ok, I went through the car. Or maybe it went through me. Yay. I made it to the other side of the road without any more accidents, although if nothing got hurt or broken was it still an accident? Was it an accident if one of the people involved was dead and insubstantial? I answered my own question with a no. The two who were there when I died… one of their names was Sadie. And Derik was with them. And another ghost girl. Either at least one of them was psychic, or they had inside help. Both options would be helpful, although with only a name to find them, it would be difficult to track them. I was seriously hoping for the option of a psychic though. I needed one. Speaking of when I died, I wondered if the police found my body. Does it even matter?

TSC is still out there. Now I just had to find them.

#DeathSquad

“Dad, do I really have to go to school today? I barely slept all weekend!”

“Education is important. You’re going.”

“Ugh.” I grab my backpack. “Fine.”

“You have to deliver a speech about suicide and Mrs. Yancy.”

“I hate you, Dad.”

“Love you too, sweetie.” I smile and roll my eyes. It’s the first time I’ve smiled since the hospital. It’s the first time I’ve smiled in forever, it feels like, even though it was only yesterday.

We drive down to Silas’s house to pick him up. He climbs into the backseat and groans.

“God, sometimes I hate parents.”

“Still grounded?”

“Still grounded. Probably for the rest of my life.”

“It’s better than telling them the truth.”

“That’s definitely true.”

“Man, if they knew the shit we did, I would not be grounded.”

“No, you’d be in a mental hospital.”

“True.”

“You know what?” I muse. “I have never been in a hospital for a serious injury since fifth grade. Not counting yesterday.”

“Ugh. Can we just forget yesterday?”

“Fine by me. Actually, let’s forget the past few.”

“Even better.”

“So can we kick Matthew’s ass now?” Silas’s eyes glittered hopefully.

“Seriously?”

“You promised.”

“Did I?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t think I did. Anyway, when’s the last time you were in a hospital? I know you broke your arm in fourth grade playing basketball. What happened to you in fifth grade, man? You were out for like, half the year. You went from straight As to straight Fs.”

“I don’t really want to talk about it.” My dad parks the car and Silas gets out.

“Thanks, Mr. Heathrow,” he says. Dad waves and drives away.

“Okay, so now you have to talk about it.”

“You never knew me before fifth grade, did you?”

“Nope.”

“Well, if you had, you would know that I had a brother. His name was Max. He had a bright future and a full scholarship to Harvard.”

“Damn. So what happened to him?”

“You know why I missed a lot of school?”

“I think your mom said you had caught the flu.”

“I did. Because I refused to get the shots.”

“Why?”

“Because I was terrified of needles. I haven’t gotten a flu shot since the day my brother died.”

“How did he die?”

“Overdosed. On cocaine.”

“That’s awful. I would apologize but I know you hate pity.”

“Thank you for sparing me that pain.”

“That’s what friends are for. So anyway, what was the last time you were in a hospital?”

“For my brother’s death.”

“Cheerful.”

“That’s life for you. Anyway, I guess I can’t blame my parents for being overprotective.”

“If they weren’t, you’d be long dead, my friend.”

“Exactly.”

“You’d get killed in a gang fight.”

“Like those freaking dickwads in my neighborhood who roam around at night?”

“Yep.”

“Nah. I could take them.”

“You sure?”

“Pretty sure.”

“I don’t know, man.”

“Unless they had knives.”

“Of course they have knives, dummy! All gangs have knives! That’s just common sense!”

“Oh.”

“Bam. I’m right.”

“You’re always right, except when you’re not.”

“Exactly. See, you are smart.”

“I’m not sure that qualifies as smart.”

“Come on, smarty-pants. Let’s go to class.” I put my arm over his shoulders and walk into the school building.

#DeathSquad

I’ve finally released Lips Of Darkness!

It is free for all, hope I can get some feedback and I can’t thank 2Bamboopanda

RyotaFujikawa

EstherFlowers1, Undermeyou , and Posey enough....

Please enjoy!

https://theprose.com/book/2184/Lips%20Of%20Darkness

Tomorrow I will be releasing Lips Of Darkness a short book centered around, you guessed it, Darkness. I just wanted to thank those who helped me figure how to put a mess of poems, into a well thought out book. I hope everyone gets to read it when they get the time. Also thanks to:

2Bamboopanda

RyotaFujikawa

EstherFlowers1

Undermeyou.

Posey......

I hope that’s all, some messages were deleted so I’m uncertain if this all who helped, these are just the ones I can recall...

For the last couple of months I’ve been working on a series of poems centered around one theme, that being darkness. So far I’m happy with my progress, and I’ve tried my best to not rush and ensure that each one is not repetitive and has a life of its own. However I truly would like some feedback from anyone willing to read it. So if anyone would like to read what I have so far to give feedback, or just to read it if it makes any sense, then please message me and I will send you a file of the current draft.