Dѧňċє poʟєs ѧňԀ pıň up pһoţo shoots

Not quite sure if I know who you are…

I am paying attention and I can see that you would like to be a little bit of everything. A little sophisticated, a little dangerous. A little childish, a little provocative. Settled down but ready to roam, scared of what’s out there but willing to put it all out there. Shy to ensure privacy but secretly wanting the fame.

You are writing the story of your life, which is fascinating to watch… Just not sure how I will fit in.


Oh, they are just homeless…

I hate the term “homeless people”

There are people that are  homeless. But that is not what defines them. That is why we feel so disconnected from them as a society.   

divine interventions /writers taboo

Today, I lost 20 dollars.
Even better though…
Is that today,
Someone found 20 dollars.

Life is like magic,
And I am the magician.

So, side note:

I sit in my car, right outside of the
Home I am renting. I always sit in my car and think, write about stuff after i get home from work. Always curious about change, I think back on this date exactly one year ago. I wrote something that sent chills down my own spine…here…I’ll post it below:


I didn’t know it before, I’d never seen it before
I knew that it existed, but it was an observation of the person next to me, in front of me,
never inside of me.
I am angry.

I first noticed the signs when small things would well up this burning ball of fire, an immediate need to reach

How do you know that you are living or simply existing? Hoping that your silent screams are heard
loud enough through the speakers of your writings, to share the remedies of both mental and emotional
heartache through the tip of your ink pen?

Reading this freaked me out, because as I sit in the car, I want to write the same exact thing. Same emotion. Some fear, just a different year. Makes me think. How much have I really changed since September of 2014?

3 pills in

I’ve forgotten that I had to breathe just like the rest of them. That, I had to live just not like the rest of them. Never happy, just surviving. Unaware of what is the best of me. It is Friday, 9:33 pm. 3 pills in and I am waiting for my head to start spinning, For my heart to stop racing, slow pace it’s way back to human speed

I am far from a being. Or yet maybe a being with anxiety so ritualistic that it’s like my chest has dubstep on repeat… waiting for the unknown moment anxiously. To get away from this feeling because it is destroying all things around me.

The tattooed and tortured


Why do we tattoo our bodies?
Is it in the name of art, or because we feel that we have to?
I think that, like love, it hurts us but we want more;
To feel the pain and let it settle enough to scar beautifully onto us
To showcase the signs of torture in us.
Our own personal warrior paint.

Then again, when I look at my tattoos, I don’t see art. I see experiences. Bad times, or good times with bad people. I let it set in, I guess in a way it’s me never letting go of her, that time, or that feeling.

What do your tattoos mean?