Doing Your Buisness

It’s something everyone has,

like a shit you just can’t get out without pushing hard.

sitting there around a porcieln   dome  your ass

staring down at the still neon blue water.

You wonder how many asses have imprinted that seat

marking its territory with its pimples and little hairs that fall out

when they pee.

You wonder what kind of diseases you would get if you sat down long enough

And waited for the parasites to feed on your inner membranes of your cheek.

But taking the risk is more comfortable

Because you feel like you’re home listening to the clock tick

Concentrating on the task at hand and relaxing reading the paper

Magazine, wishing you can move on

And continue with your life

In peace.

#1  I’m going to Alaska, you’ll see  pictures when I get back.

#2 Inspired by the Men in my Life.

#3 Grind #6

I’ll see you all in a week.



Not Knowing.

I feel your soggy eyelashes pressing

Against my face and I  stand there cold

like that January night.

You are crying because you are not sure

where to go without the fire of my hands, and I too

am not sure.


You look at me like I know the answer

that I am a calculator and I can spit out answers

I cannot.

I am a book that is unfinished

a poem without an ending

and I cannot answer my own questions

let alone yours.




I wish people weren’t so dependent on me. I’m just me.


Grind #2 : I guess this will be every other night.

Getting Back.


11:58 the clock

Ticking,moving with rhythm it beats with the strumming of keys

You force me to write but I am cautious,

Scared of what will come out

Of my fingertips


The darkness of  backspace

Regretting the thought the words

that accidently split onto the page

Like milk.

 I do not cry though because I’ve done this before

When I cried against fire and it singed me.


But Save is safe. I may go back and read

But its  solid.

Like a commitment that you hope will never go away.

But things change and I edit and change the meanings

Somehow its more of a gas now

And someday, somewhere

The meanings will float into your heart

And you will understand.



I’m doing a Grind this summer so I can write, a grind is that you write a poem everynight before a certain time to keep your creative juices flowing, at the end of every week I’ll make a post saying its the new week for the Grind and if anyone wants to join can do so. It’s a first draft only so everynight has to be a new poem. You can’t go back and edit. Once the summer is over I’m going to go back and edit but for the summer starting tonight I will be writing a poem everynight. I will be taking idea requests. So if you have a topic I should do my weekly grind on or even just for one day let me know. This time was Fear.

Please tell me what you all think.


Happy Writing!!



Traveling around the Country for Poetry


Next Trip: Massachusetts Poetry Festival in Salem!

AWP was such a wonderful time! If anyone gets the opportunity to go, GO it’s such an experience.


My fellow writers, has anyone gone to any festivals or conferences? and if you have what one was your favorite?

Eager to hear your responses


Stepping in the Right Direction.

It’s funny what a year can do. It’s funny how time can change a person so much you don’t even realize it. I was reading back at my old posts from the beginning of this blogging adventure and I must say that I was one immature chick. I was whining and talking about the same things over and over and over again. I realize you people are not idiots and have gotten my point, but I am not as cooky as you think.

I haven’t written on here in a while and in a way, I miss it. I miss writing my thoughts down and being able to see my thought pattern, even though its crazy and unorganized.But in the hiatus of time I have changed a little as a person. I am now 20 years old and I think   I am finally seeing how the world is supposed to be. How I am supposed to be. But in another way, its just another thing I am putting on the backburner. It’s just another thing I have to do. It used to be a relaxing thing but after a while it became a chore, and I am not into chores one bit.

Now that I am back (for now), I realize that this blog is about me but not the me sitting here now. My life isn’t all that interesting. I am just a 20 year college student from New Jersey trying to follow a dream. Everyone has a dream. All college kids have goals, why am I pointed out, why is my dream more important than others?

Today I was talking to my friend John about goals.  After a long time  he is very close to his goal,his dream. He got out of an enviroment that wasn’t fit for him, he focused on more than just partying and drinking and now he is in the right place at the right time. I asked him how it must feel knowing that it’s so close, so right in your face. I don’t know what I would do if that was me. He said it was an awesome feeling and that he has no regrets.

Maybe getting a successful blog is my goal and writing on here is just another step in the right direction. The other day I got asked to read at my professors Visiting Writer Series out of his chapbook. It was an honor and just an another step in the right direction. I feel like I am going through this world with my eyes closed. I don’t know what is the right turn and what is not. But I know whatever road I choose I know you all will be there, supporting me and anxiously eager to know more.


Thank you all for your support.


Do you Remember

Do you remember Brother

1971, you were so young

Do remember the choir

Echoing in the empty church

As our grey heroin took her final breaths?

We were all crying brother, wailing

Pleading for her to come back

You screamed

“Someone watch over me”

Do you remember?

Do you remember the silence

the quiet ticking of the clock

counting down the seconds till we’d see her again

Do you remember the moon

It was brighter than ever that night

The Mississippi winter was settling in

And you were cold and alone

Do you remember every morning waiting

Staring out the open window

Watching Snow blanket the solid,dead ground

Do you remember hearing a few sirens

In the distance

Not being concerned, not knowing

Where they were going

Or why


Visiting Writer: Aryn Kyle.

So tonight I went to listen to a writer at my school. My club, Creative writing club, hosts the visiting writing series at Brookdale. We get to have dinner with the writer and talk to the writer directly before the reading itself. It was pretty awesome. Tonight the writers name was Aryn Kyle. She wrote the novel “The God of Animals” and the short story anthology ” Boys and Girls like you and me” She lives in the upper east side and she has been writing for as long as she can remember. She is pretty young and her hair is really pretty  in person. In some ways she looks like Nicole Kidman but without the obnoxious voice and red hair. Her voice reminded me of a book on tape and I wished she read her whole short story book instead of just one story because her voice was just that captivating. I really enjoyed talking to her because she answered questions that I was seeking answers to. Being a young writer is hard, especially when you think your writing is shit half the time. I read one of her stories “Nine”  and it was very good. Also, she can write a killer beginning and a killer ending. I would definitely check her out.

here’s a video of her reading a short story.. It wasn’t the one I heard tonight, but this one is good too.

Tonight was pretty inspiring..

Taking A Chance.


This semester I purposely put alot on my plate when it came to school. I wanted to see if I could balance going to school full time, going to work,running two clubs,and participating in two others.Plus staying active and still being social. For an ordinary person that might sound like way to much but for me, I am somehow managing it,ontop of having a cold for what feels like a million years. I surprise myself on a daily basis. I’ve realized that with all this pressure comes LOTS of organization skills. I’ve never been organized but now that’s all I think about. I plan my days by the minute and only I can change plans. I know it sounds really bitchy but sometimes I can’t fit everything I want to do before I pass out at the end of the day.

But as a writer, I can’t just sit around and wait for inspiration to strike, I have to go out and find it. I never understood how some writers like Emily Dickinson could just sit in her room all day long and write. I would need to go out and smell the air. I need to look at people and take everything I know about them and slap it on paper. My prompt for this week for my creative writing class is to sit somewhere and watch people talk to eachother and take notes aka stalking them. As a “creep” I think its kind of awesome because I do that alot anyway. I eavesdrop all the time. It’s so difficult for me to sit in a restaurant with someone and not eavesdrop.Dates are the worst for me because with all those people around me at a restaurant, I can’t concentrate on the person in front of me.

As a writer you have to creep around a little just to get inspiration. You have to dig deep into a person’s soul for ideas because your soul  holds only so much and there is some stuff you may not want to share to the world. When you’re a writer you MUST take a chance. It may be publishing, or just writing about something you aren’t too comfortable talking about. Last semester,I took a nonfiction writing class, and I must say, that class is the definition of risk. There were tear stains on my paper when I was  handing them in. That class showed how much the world wants to hear your story, even if you don’t want to share it. But as a writer, you must have the confidence in yourself to write it down.

I believe that writing is a way for people to tell the world how they feel without getting beat up in the process. In alot of my writing, especially  in fiction writing, I write things that I wish could happen in my life, or things I wish I could have said  or how I felt about a person when I met them. After becoming friends with fellow writers, I’ve realized that we are all very judgmental people. I can say that I  am one of them. We have gut reactions and they may or may not form into characters but with every person I meet, a little inspiration is left with me.

With my life and in my writing I take  chances.maybe I’m just crazy… who knows.. We’ll find out at the end of the semester..


Sniffle #2


I felt like I was coming down with something. Like a cold I couldn’t shake off; like a never ending allergic reaction. I looked out the window hoping something could give me relief. I sniffled, breathing out of my mouth along with a moan of frustration. It had been six weeks and I felt like I was getting worse. Crumbled up tissues surrounded me like a barricade. The waste basket was already filled to the rim and I refused to throw my snot on the floor. I grabbed the tissue box and rocked it in my arms like a child. I took one out as the sandpaper tissue hugged my already pink tinted, scaly nose. I blew.

Looking out the window I stared at the many people scurrying down below. They looked like small ants in stiletto heels and glittery shirts.  Their hair bounced as the light wind from the late autumn night caught it. They linked arms with tall men with broad shoulders and shiny shoes. The radiant glow of the moon made shadows behind them as they walked past the tall cement buildings. I sniffled again, grabbing another tissue out of the box. I leaned my clammy face against the moist, cool window and sighed with relief. The city lights were so far from reach. I closed my eyes as I breathed slowly out of mouth.

The low melody of my Beethoven cd was on its last track and I wasn’t going to start it again. Standing from the warmth of the sill, I proceeded to my bedroom that reeked of antiseptic and eucalyptus. My tired, swollen eyes scanned the room. It felt so stale, so repeated, so boring. I looked down at my black pumps still sitting in its box not yet worn. I sniffled again. Maybe next weekend I would feel better enough to go dancing, or to at least debut my new shoes. I took off my clothes to change into fresh pajamas, even though I didn’t leave the house all day, and climbed into bed.

I opened my eyes to the blaring of honking horns and screeching breaks outside the open window. Rubbing my crusty burning eyes, I looked out at the sunny day. It was a Sunday and I thought Sunday was a day of rest. I slid out of bed and walked over to the open window and shut it, closing myself from the rest of the world. I slipped on my pink fuzzy slippers that looked like wet dog hair and dragged my stiff tired legs to the bathroom.

Looking at my reflection I noticed that any amount of color that had ever been in my face had been drained out. I spit in the sink as I sniffled. I ran my fingers through my dried out frizzy hair and shook my head with disgust. This sickness was not going to overpower me. I turned on the shower and waited for the steam to fill the small bathroom. The mirror began to fog up, fading my reflection in the mist. I leaned against the sink and put my head in my hands. Frustration filled my brain as the steam began to seep through my congested nose. I sniffled again.

The rest of Sniffle… It’s due tomorrow. 



A Dirty Place (continuous)

It was musty before I cleaned the place. Each stair was draped in a blanket of dust. I walked up them, making footprints behind me. I could smell the lingering odor of fesus in the air. I questioned how he could have lived there; how he could close his eyes knowing that the piles and piles of dirty inside out clothes could suffocate him. I walked towards the kitchen where the floor was beginning to turn a weird shade of yellow. Brown liquid was dripping out of the broken clogged sink. I was afraid to question. Walking back to living area, there was a small pile of crumpled up tissues lying on the ground. I wondered what the story was, behind those tissues. Was he crying as he finished the bottle of Jameson that was turned over on its side? Was he wondering why life has given him such curve balls? Was he scared of what the future held? Was he going through old pictures, reminiscing on the good times when the people were real and the times were good? Drips of alcohol stained the white paper surrounding the pictures in the album. A frozen memory of him and his brother looked back at me. His smile was the biggest I’d ever seen as he lightly held a can of Coors Light in his hand. It was winter because they were wearing sweatshirts and they were at a bar with many people I didn’t recognize. He was the happiest I’d ever seen him. That man in the picture would never have left this place like this. That man cared about himself. That man had a heart. I looked out the dirty window of the apartment and wondered where he could be. What he was doing, but I hope whatever he was doing, I was hoping he was happy.

Rain beat on the windows as the days went on and as the rain pounded against the rooftops the more I missed him. It had been a week I was starting to get worried. To keep my mind off the pain and the anxiety, I started to clean. I didn’t even clean my own place, so cleaning this roach coach was a shock to even myself. The more I thought about his disappearance, the more I cleaned, and the more I cleaned, madder I got. I scrubbed the floor thinking that if the house was clean he’d want to come back, that things would change. I heard ambulances and police cars wiz down the street as more horrible scenarios filled my already boggled brain. How could a man I love so much just leave and not tell me? What kind of idiot am I that don’t know where he could be? What kind of asshole waits here, thinking he will come home? As I sat on the sticky kitchen floor I recalled all the times of the two of us sitting on the floor drunk and silly. Kissing, talking, and laughing at stupid things, being kids, being together. At that time I thought he would never leave. I would never be waiting for him to come home. Memories began to waterlog my brain as I stared up at the table and counter from the floor. The water from my brain rolled down my warm face. I sobbed into the dirty floor as the comfort of his clothes surrounded me.

People say that a watch pot never boils, but I say that a watched phone never rings, and with that I waited. Weeks had gone by and I started to feel amputated. His house felt so empty, so cold without his warm presence. Every time I walked up the stairs I was waiting to see him silently sleeping on the couch, but instead it was just like I left it the night before. The tenet started to call and I let the phone ring like an alarm clock. I was getting sick of this irresponsible game he was playing and people were getting worried. His friends would come looking for him, neighbors would ask questions. I had no answers to give. As I cleaned, I found old papers, hoping maybe something would give me an answer. As went through the old pictures and books, I can across a plain notebook and it had a small heart in the corner. I know I shouldn’t have, but I opened it. It was filled with old movie stubs, pictures of him and her, letters, To Do Lists. I realized how beautiful she was. How much she loved him and how much she wanted things  to work out for them. Maybe he went to find her, but I found that hard to believe. He never mentioned her; he would say that the past was no longer important. That man in those pictures with her was a different man that I know. While rummaging through the papers, I found her phone number on a small napkin. I slipped it in my pocket. Maybe she knew something I didn’t. Maybe she could help me get him back.

There will be more.. thought you’d wanna hear more of my attempt at fiction.