Down low

Standard

breathe it in

let it all out

that first inhale is bringing in everything good in the world, 

                                                                        in your life.

when you exhale, all the bullshit that ties up your brain and muddles your senses, 

                            just floats away on and endless cloud of smoke. 

tension massaged from your body

stress released with thc

the pain sought out from your whole being

just don’t forget to breathe.

~~~ ❤

Weekly Writing Challenge: Ghosts of December 23rds Past

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Weekly Writing Challenge: Ghosts of December 23rds Past

A day of my past into an insignificant future. 

My past is such a struggle, its painful to remember, painful to relive. 

The day that comes to mind, is pure torture. 

When I was little, my mom wanted me and my siblings to see my dad one last time before he was sent away for years to come. The problem was someone found out. They didn’t like my moms’ last desperate resort. 

I was put in foster care with my twin and the rest of us were spread out by themselves. 

It was one night, only some sort of a 24 hour time period, but it was hell. 

I was so small, and I felt so alone. I had only my sister to comfort me and she was in a comforting mood. We sat, cuddled up together, under a table for hours, crying, until we fell asleep. We forced to eat spaghetti, of all things, for dinner and to this day I can no longer eat that saucy covered pasta. 

My mom was able to pull me out of the system, throwing out her own fears and helplessness for the court to see, a desperate housewife being evicted from her home, with no money, no job, a husband being tossed into prison for the pain he put into my family. We had nowhere to go and she had never been on her own before. (Let alone with 6 kids on her hands.) 

Her utter desperation is what released her kids from . . . ultimate daycare let’s call it.

When we got home, we were never really home. We had to move around, living with different people, never on our own. Never with daddy again. 

I saw him, a few visits to the prison visiting center but it was never satisfying. He never seemed to want to see me, he pushed me away. 

Even so, he wrote letters and drew pictures and made cards; even got a few phone calls here and there. 

One thing I remember most, is being signed up for Angel Tree. There would be a family who would call my mom during Christmas time and every kid would make a list. That family would buy the things we put on our list and say they were from daddy. 

Every year, we would get the call. 

Every year, we would wait for a delivery to out door. 

Every year, we would have the special tags, they were shaped as a tree with Angel Tree written on the top, “from daddy”.

Every year, we would open them on Christmas eve. 

Every year, disappointment rang when my daddy didn’t come home for Christmas. 

 

 

Daily Post: Interplanet Janet

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Daily Post: Interplanet Janet

A regae color swooshed into tie dye

spinning and spinning until 

                                         still

depression nonexistent

happy-go-luck

                                           pro-life

sunny and warm

                   light

                              airy

                                            peaceful

no death

no sadness

no hurt

no pain

                               only COLOR

calming herbs

spark it up~~~~

cloud over                     harm

                                                     foggy flame,

                                                             foggy world.

Where it begins.

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Where it begins.

I guess this is where my story starts; the hardest part is always the beginning it seems. This man is my father, he hurt a lot of people and the woes of my life have started with only the memory of him, the memory of his touch. His touch never violated me through body but through eyes as he sat at the computer lusting through pictures saved on google. He was a man in search of something that my mother couldn’t give him. The touch began its lingering fingers through my sister’s soul, ripped her body to shreds after he bruised my mom and my brother to bits and pieces. He made my family feel worthless and helpless, small, the prey of his treacherous heart. I never knew the full extent of his sickness, he was gone by the time I counted to 4. The letters came and went, the visits stopped at 3. By the age of 7 I was alone with a mother only there to send me to school while she struggled to keep us alive. It was painful for her. And now its painful for me.