• The Note I Leave Behind Would Go A Lil’ Something Like This!

    Each person, at night, must confront themselves in the mirror each and every time they rip off their face. My face…shit , you’d have to peal off each and every single layer like sticky notes. What I got to say probably would fit on a sticky note. A simple proverb: VAYA CON DIOS!

    (An explanation point proves it wasn’t all too bad!)

    Writing is the reflection.


    The Warmth of Being Known

    The Warmth of Being Know

    Is far hotter than all the stars combined

    The Warmth of Being Known

    Is far brighter than any star could shine

    The Warmth of being Know

    Will outlive the stars even after they die

    The Warmth of being Known

    Will dry my tears when I cry

    The Warmth of being Known

    Will hug the biggest of whales to the smallest of flies

    The Warmth of being Known

    Will be my beacon for when it’s time to tell the world goodbye

    God is the One who knows me

    And will be my light, for all Time!


    (This isn’t a cry for help by the way. If I couldn’t do this, I would have walked away a long time ago. Guess I’m not done being a tortured artist just yet. Hell, it makes me a better writer.)

    -Sunshine

    P.S I love you all, again, by the way!

    . . .

  • 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!)

    ⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊

    . . .