Wednesday, May 18, 2016

As a writer, Do I constantly criticise myself  on a daily basis?  And by the word "daily" I mean every minute of every hour. I've always been insecure since my teen years ,I know, but now it's something that I find myself trying to live up to, this ideal writer that I keep trying to be.

I still don't feel like a novelist or even a poet at times. I know I have self-doubt in my work before but this feels incredibly different because of my own knowledge of everyday people I see and man, it's something to behold if I don't make notice of everything I see.

What Is it to be a writer, not a successful one ,because I'm still in college for it still , but I still want to know. I know I'm not doing anything to pretend, not like I did when I was younger and unsure what I really wanted to do with my life(Oh please, Like I Know Now) and going to Barnes and nobles unable to even finish a chapter of a book because it was always so cold. Like they didn't want  people just reading their book and just buy them instead.  I've come a long way since then, though.
Blogging helps me release a lot a tension and voices overlapping in my fat head.  Reading to me is as entertaining as watch television, something that according to my parents, I've been watching before I could even speak. When I write and story and tell people about it, I'm proud. I guess that's what makes a writer themselves, knowing their work is theirs and theirs alone the moment they close their laptop, put down their pen and breath fro the first time in ages.

Friday, May 6, 2016


W-UP1
When one is faced with the question of failing, One is prepared for the worst. The unbelievable truth that we aren't good enough to make things happen the way we do. We want to succeed so bad sometimes we make the worst mistakes that we could make in the name of our goals.
In that sort of understanding, all actions of an individual seem justified. Every war seems not on required to maintain balance with peace but it changes to something else. Something that each person knows in their own selfish way that we are right in wanting some of the things we want. We have a reason to be angry when it doesn't go our way. That our time of being on top isn't waited on, but taken with strength and forged in will and tears and sweat and blood.

What is it to want everything in the world?
When I was a child in church years ago, My pastor would put on a stage play titled "A Fool's Philosophy of Life" which, in it's on respective way, followed a character who commits to his sin and flesh  to the very end and the people who he encountered on the way to his death. The final act, of course, focused on a person who was tempted to live a life a sin but because of the first character, she remains faithful to God. The theme of the play was scripture the says roughly "What good is it for a man to gain the world and lose his soul." Hardly enough to build an entire play around in my opinion but still, to a kid who never been on stage, it was great.  I loved my church and still do. Even though my spotty attendance(I don't go.) may suggest otherwise, when I do go, I feel better being around these people who's known me three days a week from age nine to age sixteen.
I've grown apart from them when grade school ended for me and adulthood. I don't want everything in the world, only to enjoy myself on the ride called life to the fullest. I want to succeed, I am afraid of failing and I do make mistakes. A fool if I ever saw one every morning in my bathroom mirror. But I like this fool through and through, no regret. (well, I've had a few, too few to mention)
Well I guess that concludes my warm-up :-)

Monday, May 2, 2016

Back in the cafe, I'm finding new places to sit every new visit.
Mainly because I'm looking for a spot I feel more comfortable writing with the lease tension when I arrive.  So far, no such luck in that department. It's difficult keeping up three blogs after all and I'm trying to keep one up for every aspect of my writing. Personal, Professional, and Creative outlet.
This is all that I can say about the writing in general, it's not to be taken lightly if you really want to be heard, notice, if you want to embark on a new way of life and find those who you thought wanted the same thing rather just feel sorry for themselves. It's something you have to want for yourself. I mean really need.

This morning, I woke up, brushed my teeth, rinsed my face off, grabbed my laptop, my notebook, a pen and enough money for a coffee and walked out the front door. Did I feel like a writer because the first thing on my mind and wasn't drinking,or smoking, or fucking(Well, maybe a little of that last one, it's morning wood, sue me.) but I just felt like getting up and making the walk here because I really wanted to keep writing. Funny thing is I haven't felt like this before when I started but now, It feels good to have a place to go, away from distractions, away from my best friend, brother, house, car, phone calls. And I felt better. Is that what it is to want to write or just be a writer who wants to get away and if either....why the hell is it so hard to find a suitable place to sit in the coffee house?

Sunday, May 1, 2016

A poem I wrote today. I hope you like it.
Fun Fact: If you listen to jazz while reading, It feels personal, at least to me.

The Dreamers Call

Tell me how do you see yourself on the mountaintop.
Mr. Dreamer, Boy Willie, drifting on the August wind,
Sailing ships on clouds, tasting each raisin in the sun. Dried up on the grapevine and I heard it,
Calling out for you. Rap God Supreme, shattering sound waves with do-wop, jazz, rough and black, the cakewalk. With my ragtime piano tunes, rocking and rolling pass the blues.
Mr. Walter Lee Younger, I’m calling you, back in 1961, back on every momma on the couch play, dancing in the street to African drums. Graceful voices of Holidays, Dukes and

I’m shouting to you men at Morehouse, Howard, and HBCU.
Negro, colored, niggas of the good times, counting your numbers and throwing your craps, 7, 7, snake eyes
And I’m putting all on this dream. Dollar bills with dead white men and white papers inked with dotted lines and waiting for you. Dreamer. Nick and dime keeper, Blues, Blues, Years, and Time.

Tell me how you see yourself, man in the mirror, smoother and clearer, what became
Of the dream, movement of the people, love
Movement of the people liberation
Rights, Change, Aren’t I a strong black man.
Aren’t I a black man
Black. Man. Dreamer, dreams. Dropping instrumentals with auto tunes walls  of Billboards and Grammys.  Uncle Sammies and chicken George's
Augusta paintings smear red roses across the canvass, elegant strokes of Georgia Boys in the fields with water girls in orange horizons.
Dreamers can you hear me now, I’m calling you before my time.
Before the creation of the creators of me came, Where you here then,during the rise of the formerly known prince who soaked in the purple rain,staring up at spotlights on rooftops for it to happen for you/I say, dreamers, best friends of mine,
Look at how old you stories are,sitting with smokes and drinks, scars of mending in doses and blending emotions.
God, give me strength, God ,Aren’t I a black man.
Regardless of my pasts sin. Who am I too? Who am I?
And he says “Tell me how you see yourself from within?”
I answer a dreamer loudly. Not carrying about why.
No reason
Fucking Right
No cause or illusion of success
Just a need to do it.
Just a want, That’s all I have
Just this moment. Dream, Dreamer. I am a Black Dreamer. Dreamers come and be heard.