THUG LYFE

aspiring writer/artist. struggling for financial/emotional stability. pot smoker. whiskey drinker. english teacher who mis-spells things. 23. Berkeley, California native. currently living in Sao Calors, Brazil.

any writing/photos i post are mine.

angst ridden rhyming poem

what’s in a lie?
preservation of the precived self?
foundations of the addictions?
routine of relationships?

i am a good person and
i am also a liar
and i want my god dam money back.

all this bull shit that clings to the edges of words
of answers
of things that seem to be true.

i like to take drugs to deal with my problems
and i lie about the fact that i do to the people who love me most.

because of course, they dont want me to be drugging myself every time
something bad happens.
because of course, they know how it feels when something bad happens.

stop fucking comparing my life to yours
and yes there are starving children
and yes there are sensless wars
and yes there are millions of people who dont have clean water
and YES my pain still festers in my colin, unspoken and unwritten
unable to be shit out

you tell me all i need to do is belive
that i can do this all by myself

but fuck you
and your expectations

because you have no fucking clue
what its like to be me.

just like
i have no fucking clue
what its like to be you.

did you know that most rape victims never report because they feel
that somehow,
the attack was their own fault?

did you know that the people who are the most kind
are the ones who hurt inside the most?

did you know that there are ten thousand shades of grey,
not fifty?

and did you know that their is a soup of garbage and plastic
the size of texas swirling in the middle of the pacific ocean?

i dont know much of anything
except for that which i have lived
but i do know this;
i am a good person
and i am a lair
i am fat
and i am sexy
i am broken
and i am strong

and i want my god dam money back.
this whole thing is all wrong.

on teaching english in brazil;

my neighbors they must think im crazy
i eat pizza and drink bear and smoke joints and write poetry
on my dark balcony
when i sit down no one can see me

my friends they must think im crazy
because i dont have a tv
who dosent like tv?
they ask me.
its not that i dont “like” it
i just dont enjoy it.

most nights my apartment is silent

on the weekends i drag red dirt up and down
the stairs
my hair curled perfectly and dripping sweet water
behind my footprints
spilled beer and ash
from a day of swimming and
loving existence.

mondays and tuesdays are the wild nights

when friends arrive ate one am
and stay til five

i fucked him til we broke my bed
and heard the neighbors roster call
begging the sun to rise

high heels crack
in the late afternoon
plat prat plat
off to work
back at ten

my neighbors must think im crazy
some kind of prosititue

that has friends who snort cocaine
and live between half truths