Lonely Monologue

"I mean, some people create change in their lives and some people let change create them," she said. "It's like, a job, a partner, a career path, a place that you're unhappy with -  well, more, like oppressed by - but, you're also too scared to leave it. It's catching your period in a public bathroom without any tampons. It's being stuck."

Her friend listened carefully, patiently as ever and urged her to continue venting with sympathetic eyes.

"I'm lost... I'm so fucking lost in this haze of activities occupying my body 'til suffocation. I'm lost because the directions in front of me are - directionless. They lead to places only conceivable in the extent to which they amplify my anxiety. I don't see progress before me and maybe that's because no matter where I am, who I'm with, or what I do, I'm never gunna think I'm adequate. I'll always be unsatisfied. I'll always be a worthless piece of shit behind the defective composure of a sweet young lady. People will always see through my shitty mask 'cause I'm overly emotional, melodramatic, self-absorbed, and broken."

Her friend came in closer to her from across the sheets and gently pulled her head toward his breast. He held her there in that corner of the room reserved for self-destructive breakdowns and uncontrollable sobbing, where she often thought about how the width of a body pillow leaned against the wall could feel like the shoulder of a friend.

"Maybe 'stuck' isn't the right word. It's more like captivity. I can tell because the anxiety just builds up right in the center of my chest. It tightens and creates pressure, painful tension. It's unresolved energy. It's the words that I'll never actually get to say to anybody. Like these."

Writing IRL

I am a writer. It's easy to say but difficult to prove. A lot of people think that since they aren't published or contracted yet that they aren't writers. I don't think that's true. I think being a writer is about the care, energy, and time you put into the craft and practice of writing. My name is Aliyah and I'm an unprofessional writer. I have not been published, paid, contracted, nor do I have an established following, but I am a damn good writer.

Something that is not clarified often enough is how to do something. They're like, "Do your taxes or else IRS will come for you," "Make these aggressive sales targets or you'll lose your job," "Get published or else we won't publish you," and I just wonder how? Some people will be human enough to show you the way and it'll be up to you to utilize that resource to achieve whatever goal but, with appalling frequency, we are expected to just do it. Then, if you get it wrong enough times, they persecute you despite context or circumstance because results (which pretty much always translates into money) matter more than people.

Now that we're good and lost in Aliyah's personal life and opinions, lets move on to my statement of action. Write! Write like it's the only genuine thing left in this world of trashy, fallacious, low quality, superficial, digressive mass media. These popular platforms, such as YouTube, are really important but I think that we mustn't let video, audio, or images overshadow classic text, but maybe that's an older way of thinking. Still, writers are important and needed everyday for these other platforms to exist, for much of anything to exist and I think that if we as writers can strive to recognize our own value and assert that to others then we would be valued more (and paid more!) by employers. Don't let yourself fall out of practice because you don't think it's a profitable use of time. It's more beneficial than a dollar could quantify.

Burgundy Black

And her retired mascara
Sharp reaper wings
Thick wet messes
Crumbling rib cage

Murderess cat eyes
Thickened stickiness
Crum  bull  ling cage
And her retired lashes
                            lowered

Zombie Poetry #1

If I ever stopped running... A blood blackened sun would make this scorched skin cry Filthy locks would fly astray, freer than I Fractured structures that stand this flesh would wail and weep The humid breath of Earth would clasp every crease Stripped, stained nails would invite blood at the palm Parched, waterless lips would breathe a profound and silent song That grew from the confinement of this boney cage And overcome my eyes with a frightfully, bleary haze It prevails in this ever growing prison To fail at eliciting the depth and degree of my misery And I would loose breathe. . .

Cool Melancholy

Its midnight and I’m staring at overcast skies
Pointless to try and get some rest but I can’t close my own eyes
Those heavy clouds that block the moonlight, They cover my cries
Same way this world wants to rewrite my mind with whitewashed lies
To spiritually destroy me, reward me, and give me glory
For my passivity and docility or otherwise they’ll scold me
But servility, it really ain't that far from slavery
Yet  this complacency, frees me from my sensibility

And the its idea that I'm controlled by my oppressing climate
That allows me to be a helpless recluse, depressing and quiet
A calm state of melancholy I call it,
Its something I hate to admit, that I fell in love with when first I saw it
The most sorrowful rains always beckoned my presence
Eversince the merciless sun shone on my first lamet
I knew contentment didn’t belong for too long, It's too easily spent
And that while my life was falling apart, the world moved on

So I eagerly sought out the pouring  rain to play my heart’s somber songs