• This Would Be In Character…If Edgar Allen Poe Wrote It.


    The not-so nursery rhyme everyone was expecting of me. Maybe I should go to Baltimore and put this on his tombstone. Funnily enough, his moment of death was two days ago (at the time of me writing this).


    The Tale Of Deborah Downs

    Deborah Downs is a girl who failed to make her mama all too proud

    Mrs.Downs didn’t make a sound

    Mr.Downs couldn’t even bother to just be around

    That’s just how life goes for Deborah Downs

    Word around town is that Deborah makes babies frown

    Since she put her own mother in the ground

    Word around town is that Deborah made the horses leap from the Merry-go-round

    As soon as she rode it, the ride broke down

    Word around town is that Deborah makes all the priests repent and bow down

    As if satan himself gave her the thorny crown

    One day, Deborah became tired of being put in the dog pound

    She was not of her name, sick of the put-downs

    So she decided she would put herself down

    Her tomb reads:

    “Here Lies Deborah Downs, Even God Can Be A Clown.”

    This was the tale of Deborah Downs


    It just sneaks up on me. A itch I just can’t scratch. Until I scratch the paper (or keyboard).

    Written on October 9th, 2024

    . . .

  • This Too Shall Pass

    My lover and I were discussing at length, each other’s careers. In my case study, librarianship found me, as opposed to me finding it. Since my system is public-facing, there are times when the stress level can get beyond controllable. I find that the post-Covid (some say current) era has bred an underground pandemic of its own. Brain rot. A decrease in mental capacity certainly floods the airwaves. Tolerance levels are at an all time low. A patron may be having a bad day, and take it out on the workers. But, long gone are the days of pushing through the pain, as the server. You now find yourself reflecting back at them, or extreme lengths, abandoning ship entirely. Controllable emotions are now lost on either side.

    Last summer, I experienced a creative renaissance. What became of my life, after the push that sent me over the edge, was nothing short of magnificent. Now looking back, I plead to God “give me those times again”. Low tolerance, which I had even before 2020, sunk into my chest and my head this year. This affects my ability to think, and in turn, write. My way of translating the world into my own words, had slowly began to become lost in translation inside my own rotting corpse concurrently. This year has been a hard one, so was 2020, so was 2016. I guess for me, it comes in 4s. 4 is an unlucky number in a lot of cultures. Better brace myself for 2028. Sometimes, I humor myself, even in the bleakest of ways.

    This Too Shall Pass.


    Syd N’ Sam 

    When my grandma said she had names for her selves 

    For which reminded me of books on the shelves 

    I knew from then on, 

    My mind cannot be quelled 

    When my grandma ask God for Him to take her 

    And died a week later  

    I knew from then on, 

    Words had power 

    When my grandma called for me under anesthetic 

    And told me everything was copacetic 

    I knew from then on, 

    Life may destroy me, but can’t defeat me 

    I just won’t let it.

      


    Poem Written on September 16th, 2024.

    (Slowly but surely getting out of my funk, tortured artist mode deactivate, until we meet again!)

    ⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊

    . . .