(I wrote two things: something for Japanese and a poem. I’ve gotten the corrections back for the Japanese post I wrote a week ago. I’ll post that later on. For now I’ll just share my poem. [WORD COUNT: 672])

I forgot to write something on yesterday I suppose I really needed the rest 

I was exhausted after all Although That was partially my fault 

I have developed This bad habit Of dancing to music On my iPod In the dark 

Well, Anyway 

The other day I found myself Feeling a bit perturb 

Beautiful young women Being encouraged To flaunt it because they’ve got it Sometimes To the point where it makes me believe That the ones doing the encouraging Don’t think those young ladies Have anything else to offer 

Whatever happened to modesty? Leaving something to the imagination?

[WORD COUNT: 856]

I watched a video about a dying trend in Japan --the other day Ganguro girls The origin of the term was meant to be Offensive Referred to as the Japanese version Of Black Face ‘Burnt skin’ I believe that was one of the things --I heard them say

But you know what’s funny?

I didn’t see my culture: I saw Jersey Shore girls Mixed with Cali beach chicks All tanned up With the rip jean shorts Extensions Nails Wild colors and bronzed skin

[WORD COUNT: 266]

In my quest for a second language I have learned a few things: 

Be patient No one, Unless they are a multilingual genius, Can master this stuff overnight Everyone learns differently So hang tight Give yourself time to get it 

Be humble Just because you’ve mastered the --things That you didn’t know a week ago Doesn’t give you the right To sneer at those Who are still trying to get it

(This piece’s word count is: 1,302 WORDS. Total Word Count: 3,205)

Today

I am in an odd place 

Located between Fighting like hell And Going completely cold 

I am defensive about these things Recognizing I need help But choosing to not ask for it Because I’d rather tell people That I’m fine So I don’t have to feel like some Cheap, defective product That is malfunctioning And needs to be thrown away 

No one really likes talking to someone Who’s like that Who’s always like that 

“Ah, She’s having another one of her Moods again…” 

Did you ever try asking her How she feels? Did you try listening? That alone would make a difference Did you let her cry And allow her to wrestle around With her words As she attempted to answer your question Of why she feels… 

…so sad?

On days like today I often ask myself that, “Why… Why do I feel…like this?” 

The logical answer And the absolute one: I haven’t been spending any time With God. The devil is just messing with me. I need to suck it up Get it into gear, that’s all. 

But is it, really? Is that really all it is? 

Lately I’ve been tossing around A question: What’s the difference Between a pity party And full-blown depression? 

Is there even a difference? These days From what I’ve heard people say People don’t get depressed They just get really sad From feeling sorry for themselves All they need to do Is just get over it 

We treat mental illness as a joke And label those Who suffer from it As some kind of… Sorry, pathetic Weak excuse of a person

It’s easy to fight your opponent When you can physically see them So you tell me: How can I fight an enemy That I can’t see

Faith tells me: Pray Read the scriptures Fast if necessary 

It’s always been my standard Go-to reply But when I Find myself in a state When I don’t really feel Like praying Or reading Let alone fasting 

When I don’t want To be bothered With talking to people For feeling sure That they will hand me a tissue With a crate of cheese 

A cookie And a pat on the back For sympathy 

Tell me… What is the solution When everything is so Overwhelming That all you can think of to do Is drown? 

Funny thing is… I hate sympathy 

I hate when I share things Grievous, upsetting things And I get a sympathetic response Rather than an empathetic one 

I hate feeling sorry for myself So I hate it all the more When one calls themselves Feeling sorry for me

 Stop me if you’ve heard this one, “You know what always cheers me up?” 

No And frankly I don’t give a flip About what cheers you up. 

I am not just sad. I am dying. I am worn and tired. I feel depleted. I am nauseated By what I feel And am experiencing. I am frustrated. I am annoyed By your attempt to encourage That is heavily coated With your true message: Hurry up And get better already. 

Once again, I am in An odd place. A strange state. 

The more I write about it… The more I actually do feel better… 

But my goal has never been To feel better Rather All I have ever wanted 

Was to be okay And to stay Well 

And maybe Just maybe That is why I write The way that I do Because You have to find the joy Somewhere 

Even when you tell yourself That you quit on today And the day after that, Weeks and months, Man you say I quit to the whole year But You have to find something You have to find that bit of hope In someone In someplace Anything 

And maybe It’s the reason why I can see the things That other people reject As hideous And find the beauty within it 

When I hear a person say That they don’t like dealing With sad things Or that they don’t like Being sad It angers me, from time to time So what—I want to yell at them— SO WHAT. I deal with it every damn day. And you can’t be bothered for a minute? What? You think life is a picnic? The world is singing songs Holding hands And when the peace is disrupted Let’s not talk about it. Let’s pretend Like racism doesn’t exist. Let’s not acknowledge That people are hurting In every country. Let’s not talk about mass shootings Or homeless veterans, Or unarmed black men and women Being gunned down. Let’s not focus on Black on Black crime, Or acknowledge such a thing As White on White crime, which is higher. Let’s not even mention Americans Who couldn’t read their name Even if you wrote on the board for them. 

Oh And we certainly Cannot talk about things Like depression Or suicide Or any thing else Dealing with mental illness Because those things Are sad And those things ruin your party So screw everybody else With those issues, right? 

Give me a freakin’ break.

I can confess I partly envy them They say It’s all a matter of how you see things And I am sure It must feel wonderful Waking up to each day like it’s Pure sunshine But Isn’t kind of jacked up To only see things from one perspective? Is it not hypocritical To choose only deal with the stuff That makes you feel good But not even take a glance At the uncomfortable Or unsettling? 

I feel unsettled And yet I feel the pieces Settling 

And the more I think about it The more I begin to realize Perhaps Days like these Aren’t so bad, after all 

It might be rough And they will always judge you But I am still here I am still alive And in this dreariness I can thank God For allowing me to go through it 

To talk about it with Him In my writing When I lose all capacity To speak To pray To do the things I know I should be doing, but don’t 

I can thank Him For being able to breathe When emotionally There’s a weight on my chest And my heart Is bombarded 

Surely It is because of the pain And the darkness That I can recognize What true light is What real peace is Where healing really comes from 

And That it is okay It’s fine to feel a mess now and then To be broken And torn apart 

It’s okay to be sad

And it doesn’t mean That something is wrong with YOU It does not mean That you are a recall And need to be thrown away With the rest of the garbage 

What you are Is normal And you shouldn’t pretend That everything is okay When it isn’t 

Just know That when it isn’t That’s okay too And you DO have Someone You can talk to His name is Jesus 

I’ve been talking to Him This entire time, actually I just Wasn’t all that aware of it At the moment Not until now 

When you’re not sure What exactly to say Or what to pen down On that page 

Just say it 

Don’t worry about the rhyme Or the rhythm Just let it all tumble out 

When you dump out A large pot of water Do you debate over Whether or not to use a scoop Or eye drop Cup or small pitcher To get the water out? 

No. You don’t. (At least I would hope not. That’s way too much work.) 

All you do Is simply pick it up, And dump it out Into the sink, In a plant, Wherever you dispose of That old water… And you set that pot down 

I used to say I didn’t care about what other people Thought

As I get older, however, I’m becoming very aware Of the fact That I do actually consider What it is they’re thinking And what they will say

Like Being afraid to publish Certain poems Because you fear the backlash And the steady noise Of complaints in your ears About what you wrote

Or Being scared to tell people That you’re primarily focusing On studying Japanese Because they think That learning it is a waste of time And you’d be better off learning Something else

Or even Not wanting to boldly tell people Your occupation: Self-published Author Because you’re not putting out Best sellers just yet And because of that You feel like you’re not really Doing much of anything Nor feel all that successful

And most of that is just with one person Mostly, anyway

[WORD COUNT: 16]

I missed another day again--the 11th--but other than that I’m doing my best to stick to my personal challenge of writing as much as I used to. Since I haven’t posted on here in a while, I’ll be posting the days in separate posts. Here is the post for Day 7 [WORD COUNT: 243])

Don’t write when you’re not inspired

Well, That was probably The worst piece of advice I’ve ever taken

(Again, in the event that I do write enough words in my poems to hit the 50,000 mark, I’ll go ahead and turn it into a novel. For now I’m using this month to challenge myself to write more every day. I really need get back to doing what I love and I haven’t been writing that much lately. Also, I noticed I have typos already... (-_-) so I’ll be fixing those eventually. In the event it changes the word count then I’ll be sure to correct so I have an accurate record. The following poem is 920 words.)

Sometimes It’s easier to dream Than it is to chase the vision

 I’m sorry Let me rephrase that

 When you are lazy And you are not willing To pursue the things You said You’ve wanted to do Your whole entire life Well then It becomes easier To fall into the trap of Wishful thinking Rather than actively engaging The sacrifice

 I am finding that out right now

I knew I was born to be a writer Because the day I learned to write Was when I fell in love with it I vividly recall Practicing writing my letters In an alphabet workbook Over and over again in pencil Because I loved it that much 

And when those words Transformed And became meaning And the meaning took flight My heart soared This, I thought, This is what I am supposed to do I don’t know what it’s called yet 

But this is exactly What I was meant to be 

I was under the false impression However That being good at something Means instant success 

Hard lessons come with that You see You might be really good At what you do But there are always ten more Who are even better And just because You’re good at something Does not automatically guarantee A spot on the team 

No, no baby You’re going to have to work for it Just like everybody else 

Did you think that was a joke When they told you, “No one is going to hand you Anything; You have to work For what you want”? 

Yeah, I bet you did 

I bet even You did believe it You just didn’t think it would apply To you 

It’s okay. I didn’t either But life certainly let me know How untrue that is 

There are no exceptions To the rule 

I used to envy some of the people I saw Looking at how easy things seemed For them What real work did they put in, I wondered And they were younger than me… 

I grew bitter. I’m still kinda salty about it, Actually. 

And yet, In the midst of all this Complaining I could have done something About it A long time ago 

Start-stutter-stop Start-stutter-stop Start-stutter-close the shutter Close the shutter and just Stop already That has been the pattern The sequence of me 

I think… I could be mistaken, but I think… Somewhere along the way I became spiteful I lost the value of hard work Because I’ve been watching These perfectly plastic Miraculously manipulated Beautifully botched Fairytale frauds An astutely, astronomically astounding Extremely egregious, exciting events 

Because one thing that rings true I don’t know what all that person Had to give up How much of themselves They lost To get what they have Behind those smiles I ponder How much of their soul Is left 

There are days I feel like I missed the boat Years ago And now… Well, now I'm just too old 

What do I really have to offer? What can I actually put on this resume? It’s the end for me. 

I stare at my Word sometimes And I ask God, “Do women like me Truly have a destiny?” 

What exactly is my purpose Other than this? 

I mean I get it, you know Often I feel I take my gift Way too for granted Hence why I’m sitting here Challenging myself To write more Instead of daydreaming about it Because when you actually do it Why waste time thinking about it? 

That is, of course, When you really don’t think you can 

I think others have believed in me More than I ever have 

I want it to be easy I hate that it always has to be Such a struggle And I keep telling myself I’ll appreciate it more Because I had to endure for it In the hopes that I’ll buy into what I’m saying When I say that to myself 

I truly am lazy I’m out of shape And I think It’s been long past due To stop watching other people Live their dreams And start pressing towards mine 

It’s like I said the last time The worst thing You could ever do Is give up on yourself The last person you ever want To disappoint Is you 

I think of that little girl Who read poems out loud In her room Eyes full of tears Because no one would listen But she figured Someday Somewhere out there Someone would And she kept reading Because she thought Someone was And she told herself She’d make sure to write things That would inspire and touch All the broken people Like her 

That was her greatest dream 

And sometimes I cannot bear to stare into the mirror For fear of seeing the sadness Welling up in that little girl’s eyes Her silent screams That stream down her cheeks Saying, “But what about our dream? You used to believe in me, Remember? When they told you it was impossible And you couldn’t do it, That you weren’t a great writer, That what you wrote was trash, When they laughed at you And talked about you as you walked by…” 

I can feel the tears In my own eyes As I hear her say, “Don’t you… Don’t you… remember?” Her voice breaking As she fights to hold in her sobs 

No… I cannot fail that little girl I was so focused on proving them wrong That I forgot