Thursday, April 30

I'm Not Just A Song Anymore.

Monday's exams will officially end my first year of college.

Those words taste strange as they pass my lips. I'll be done with my first year of college.

It was never a question of whether or not I'd get here. There was actually no questions about it. It was simply assumed that I'd pursue my higher education and excel.

I excel at what this system needs me to do. None of this has made me a better person. None of this has made me happier. I am here and you are there. We are separated by walls of ideology.
Believe me when I say, liberation is painful. You hurt for your freedom.

bell hooks wrote that students are unwilling to accept progressive pedagogy because it asks them to question and reexamine the very foundations of everything they've ever learned and trusted.

But it is what is necessary.

You and I changing is what is necessary.

Post-secondary education is a business---a heart breaking truth, but a truth all the same. We are the consumers. We ought to control the education we, as the consumers, are purchasing. Rise up, my fellow comrades! Rise!

Take back your learning. Take back control. You are not mindless. You are not menial.

Universities, give us what we want. Give us what we need. Give us what we deserve.

No more of this dismal sham where we are trained to be clogs in a fucking machine. No. We deserve so much more.


I feel really old and severely unaccomplished. I'm pushing nineteen, dammit! I'm going to die soon. Well, at least my spirit is going to die soon, leaving me with this useless sac of flesh that ain't got no soul, ain't got no stank.

I've done less of what I love this year and that bothers me so much. This summer, I'm going to get my ass to those open mic nights and I'm going to beast it with my edgerous poems. I'm going to share my love and hate and in betweens with anyone who'll listen.

I want to meet new people. I want to fall in love them all. I also want to hate them, a lot.

Secretly, I'm stressing out about finals. I don't really think I have to, but I'm a creature of habit. So, I will.


P.S. Stop drinking the pool water.

Tuesday, April 28

This Is For You...

Dr. Park has asked me an interesting question after reviewing my journal entries for this semester.

Why are you so against online education, but so enamored by social networking sites?

I dunno, really.

I'd answer you, but I don't know.

My head hurts.

I need sleep.

Night, loves.


Monday, April 27

Has It Really Been So Long?

I checked my facebook inbox this morning. Guess what I found?

A letter from SLC. Yeah. What betches.

It wasn't anything important. I never had the heart to un-join the SLC 2012 group, so they were sending out announcements of all the wonderful shit they've done this past school year. Freakin' fantastic.

Whatever. I'm trying to be happy where I am. I'm trying to love the times before they get bad again. So I will.

I should be attracted to good Muslim boys---says bestie, Anam. But every time a decent one comes along, I always think of someone else they'd match up nicely with. Apparently, Mohammad was a 'good catch' but instead of fancying the boy myself, Jeremy and I paired him up with Anam---in my own little world, mind you. And now this 'nerdy-hot' guy who teaches Sunday school kids and goes to UCF and who Anam & Amber approve of comes out of nowhere, and I think to pair him up with Rafiya. Sigh.

Maybe it's because once you meet that good Muslim boy, you know that this it it. This is the end of your life. You can just forget about living on your own in a sexy little loft with french doors and white china. You can just forget about doing your own thang.

It's easier to like someone you can't imagine a future with, because---as selfish as this sounds---your future will still be yours. (Yes, I know that we would have no future in bizzaro universe where you actually adored me. Not only would we kill eachother, but I'm pretty sure our families would be very upset, maybe even a little disappointed. That's the best you could do, daughter/son?)

And quite honestly, I don't want to get married any time in the near future. Or all. It's scary and awkward and I don't want to and you can't make me! NO. NO. NO.

But I do want kids. I want to give a home and a future and as much of my heart as to as many kids as I possible can. They deserve nothing less. Children are not bad. They just need patience and love and opportunity.

Maybe I'll start up an orphanage with Lord Byron...

Okay, no. I won't. At least, not with Lord Byron.


School will be over soon. I will have completed my first year of college. What have I done? What has become of me?

I dunno. But today, I like me. I can't really say how I'll feel tomorrow, but right now, I like Athia. She's an alright kinda gal.


P.S. I'll write a poem later today. I'd like to write one in the library.

Saturday, April 25

Tip Better, Assholes!

Be nice to your servers. They're unappreciated intellectuals whose genius isn't mainstream...yet.

Well, for the most part. Others are just coke whores.

Wow. I'm really mean. That was nasty of me. Sorry, coke whores.


P.S. Yeah, I'm a bad person. I'll admit to it.

Friday, April 24

I somehow managed to get marinara sauce all over my face and in my piggy tails. Please don't ask how. Just know that I got yelled at for half an hour for being very very clumsy.

I can't help myself. Gravity is a crazy bitch and he hates me.

I'm sleepy.

No more writing, for now.


Wednesday, April 22

Poem Ten...

I’ll never be your dream girl.
I won’t fit in the palm of your hand,
Or be cute enough to make the guys jealous.
I won’t ever be sweet enough, or sensitive enough, or understanding enough.
Or sexy enough,
But I’m fierce
Because when Maya Angelou wrote ‘I am wo-man’
She was talking about me.

I’ll always be the girl who’s just a little clumsy,
Sort of awkward and very round.
But I’ll also be the girl who makes you smile with my ridiculous antics,
My random messages, asking you to moon walk when you just want to Earth walk.

I’ll be the girl to push you out of your moods
And say the right and wrong things
And encourage you to pursue your dreams
The ones you never had the courage to risk it all for,
Who’ll make you feel like a boy trying to grow into a man.

I’ll be the girl who drags you out yourself to play in the sunshine,
Even though it’s the last thing you seem to want,
It’s the first thing you really need.
I’ll be the girl who needs you just as much as you need me.
Who tells you when you’re a stubborn asshole
And when you need to give more and take less, you selfish dick.

Tuesday, April 21

Poem Nine

I never delete my journal entries
No matter how embarrassing the after taste of tomorrow’s clarity may be.
They’re the unwanted children
That I never have the courage enough to love,
Even though I nursed them to life with the tip of my pen.
You are a shame.

Perhaps I was dramatic, and emotionally needy, and maybe a little bitch crazy
But I just let the words sit there and stew, changed feelings fostering old memories;
My fingers poised next to the delete key,
I have my mother’s detached affection,
Repulsed but loving all the same,
The heat of anger pours from my lips, how stupid you are

But these words are mine.
You are mine.
I forgive you. I forgive you. I forgive you.
This was a me once,
And I take you in my heart and hand for whatever you offer me.
I love you. I love you. I love you.

I never delete my journal entries,
Even though I don’t mean half the shit I’ve written in the past
Because this present is my home.
This present is where you and I sit on white benches on rainy days
And have long talks of nonsensical things
Things that jump into puddles with their yellow rain boots
And offer us mud pies teeming with worms.

Monday, April 13

Poem Eight...

I leave little pieces of myself lying around the place,
Worn through weekday weather
Like my favorite sandals,
Brown leather creased with the places I’ve seen.
Sure, I’m broken and bashed in
By change and time and struggle,
But I’m hopeful all the same,
With clear eyes of optimism.

Sometimes I think that the world is my bedroom floor,
Which I’ll litter with my useless nothings.
Three weeks laundry piled high in a corner,
Obligations and responsibilities tucked into the back
Pockets of my blue jeans
To eventually be forgotten and thrown into the wash.

There’s sticky notes filled with ambition
Collecting dust on the cork board
While discarded plots and story-lines cry helplessly for revision
As I write a new note, crumple it, and add it
To the pile of retired thought.

Other times I speak to the empty space,
The silent voices of a million people
Just to prove that I exist,
Just to add a moments chaos to the timeline of humanity.
Hello, I am here.
I am real.
I am infinite and fragile.

But mostly, these little pieces of myself,
These love letters to no one,
They’re really for the bigger pieces of you,
You who I love without knowing.

Friday, April 10

Pictures Remind Me Of How We Were...

Thank god I've got work all weekend. That ought to distract me from stuff.

Enjoy some pictures.

Someone wrote this in one of the cubicles. I added the 'Happy national poetry month' bit.

This was an interesting view.

She was staring me down. :)

Dad. :(


Thursday, April 9

I have no one. I'm just going to stop pretending like anyone gives a shit about me, because I just end up hurting myself when you prove me wrong.

I'm done with 'creating ties'. I'm done being a good friend. When I need someone to listen, ACTUALLY listen, where the fuck do you all go?

Whatever. I don't need you. I don't need you. I don't need any of you.

Things are getting shitty and I'm trying not to kill myself. Things are getting bad and I'm trying to be okay. I'm trying, dammit. I'm trying to hold on a little longer until it gets better. I wanted your help.

But I don't need it. I don't need you. I don't need you. I don't need you.

I never complained. I do everything you ask because you're my parents. I love and respect you. I never ask for anything, even if I do want it. I try not to burden you. I've always taken on responsibilities you're too busy to handle, even when I was just a kid.

For three years, I slept on the floor of your bedroom, and I never complained, not once. For three years I didn't have a place to put my clothes or books or study or be alone. I never complained. For three years I had to clean up after four extra people. I never complained. For three years I listened to you gripe and bitch and moan about how they were exploiting your hospitality. I never complained.

Now you want to do this to me again, even though you know how I feel about her. You tell me to leave. You love your sister more than your daughter. You are a bad mother. You are a bad mother. You are not my mother. I've never needed you.

I never complained when you weren't there for me. I never complained that I was raised in front of the television set. I never complained that I'm your fucking slave. I never complained when you forced me to study something I don't like.I never complained when you made me feel guilty for thinking I deserved happiness. I never complained when you shot me down over and over again. I never complained. I just took all your negativity. I just listened to you. I just gave and gave and gave and you kept taking and taking and taking.

There isn't much left of me. But I'll give the rest to you anyway.

Take it. I have nothing anyway.

I use to think that it was okay. You could hate me. I still have my friends, right? Those people you find who become family? Those people you find who make life amazing, who make it worth living, who make it worth loving?

I don't even have them.

I have nothing.

I don't need you. I don't need you. I don't need you.

Wednesday, April 8

No Bananananas In My Smoothie, Please.

Nostalgia, nostalgia, you're such a little bitch.

I've been swearing a lot recently. I'm not bothering to censor myself, and I don't really know why. It's not as though my vocabulary is lacking. I've just adopted crude speech into my ever day vernacular. It makes me feel dangerous and edgy, when in fact, I'm about as cut throat as a basket of paraplegic kittens. Yeah. Let that imagery sink in.

I'm in a pretty bad place right now, but it's going to get better. At least, that's what I keep repeating to myself.

Calm the fuck down. Just calm the fuck down.

So instead of concentrating on my Dadu or my obnoxious family or my ambitionless goals, I've chosen the lesser of my problems to agonize over. Though, this agonizing is leading me to botch the whole situation even more, but whatever. We're resilient. I'm sure that one will fix itself (Yes, denial is a pleasant thing...).

Now about being ambitionless...
I dunno, genuinely. I want to create beautiful things just to share with the people I love. Part of me wants everything to fall into obscurity---there's beauty in stumbling upon magic. Another, less prominent, dormant part wants acclaim and success and instant gratification. I'm torn between starving for my art and living the diva life.

Yet, neither of those are really viable options. I should just study biology. It's a subject that amazes and inspires me. Honestly, whenever I read up on biology, I feel a little bit of my faith coming back to me. I Begin to think that a God must have created these perfect systems.

I dunno.

What are you good at, Athia? I'm good at school and passing tests and regurgitating information. It's how I've survived in this system for so long.

What makes you happy, Athia?
That's harder to answer. Maybe being self-involved makes me happy. Evey time I resurface from my very active imagination, I find myself hating reality even more. I observe the people around me, and what I see is frightening. I want to retreat within myself all over again.

What is most important to you, Athia?
I want to say my family or friends or God or something dripping with generic ease and self-sacrifice. But what's most important to me right now, right at this very moment, is finding Athia and falling in love with her.


I'm apparently 'socially underdeveloped'. I was shouting back at Gabi: "What do you mean I'm underdeveloped...socially?!?!" and this mellow looking guy sitting nearby just looked at me and smiled. Oh... yeah.

I want to try and be less loud and obnoxious. HA. The sad part is that I have been trying. >_<

I'm so sleepy, I can barely keep my eyes open...

Going to chem.



Poem Seven...

It might be too late to write a poem, but know that I actually have one. At least, it's planned out in my head.

Going to try and sleep now.


Tuesday, April 7

Oh, To Drown In a Bowl of Soup...

I've been trying to come up with clever ways to kill myself that aren't utterly ridiculous.

Wow...I didn't realize how suicidal I sounded until just recently. I'm only joking, though. Death is something to joke about, not to mourn, not to let defeat you.

I joke about death a lot, at least in my head. To me, it's not morbid. It's essential when you think about life.

It isn't fear of death that enables me to try at life. It is an understanding that it has to happen and a realization that it's okay. I don't fear dying. If anything, I fear not living and not loving enough. But I suppose I have to qualify, because not living is essential being dead, in regards to the natural order of things. Hopefully, you can understand the difference between living (moving through mechanical motions, operating like wheels in a clog) and living (finding fulfillment, actualization, happiness, etc.). There is a distinct difference between the two.

You may think I follow the epicurean doctrine, but I don't. At my core, I'm not even a hedonist. I don't always seek pleasure, I seek feeling---regardless of whether or not it's good or bad. You have to feel something. Living in neutral lacks substance.

But to each his own, right? How can I judge your happiness? I won't.

Monday, April 6

Really? (poem six)

It's a shit life.

My grandmother is dying. My father is a coward. My best friend hates me.

I am sad. I am angry. I am hurt. I am confused. I am unable to deal with this anymore.

Dear God, if you exist, just take me down in one fell swoop, rather than this prolonged agony, thanks.

I know I am being purposefully melodramatic. I know it seems malicious and callous. But the only way that I can deal with my problems is by writing and I only know how to write satire.

When I die
(which, if there is a divine being perched in the clouds waiting to answer my prayers, may well be very soon)
I'd like you to harvest my internal organs
and give it to those more deserving.
It's right here in writing, so don't you dare do otherwise.
Also, you bitches better not embalm me.
I'll have none of that mummification bullshit.
Take the heart and the brains and whatever else you can use
and bury me in the ground straight away.
I don't want a coffin.
I don't want to be dressed in some frilly outfit.
Let me rest in my froggy pajamas.
Put me under some needy tree,
that'll suck life from my fleshy bits.
Let me be of some use to the Earth.

Sunday, April 5

You're Lovely, But You're Empty/ Poem Five...

"You risk tears when you let yourself be tamed."

All the greatest pearls of wisdom can come from this simply little story. I suggest you read it, if I haven't given it to you already---as though it were gospel. It ought to be. Blasphemy. Oh, well.

Fly your outer orbits around a little planet,
No larger than a house made of bright red brick,
Maybe you can't you imagine such a place,
If you look from the eyes of a grown-up.

See, on this planet is something rare, indeed,
Hard to divine with the eyes, it only exists in your heart beat.
There's a boy and a flower, a very silly flower
So vain and so proud, with fierce claws to fight off the tigers.

He didn't know how to love her, she didn't know what he needed.
But you're responsible for everything you tame,
And you can't escape, even to universes beyond.
That little flower, that vapid little flower,
Was important because she was tamed,
Because she tamed that silly little boy;
She was the only flower in all the world,
To her only Little Prince in all the world.

P.S. Sleeeeeeeeep.

Poem Four...

We want such impossible things, sometimes. It's heartbreaking. Adriana calls it the 'shit fantasy' and I agree.

But we're dreamers, and we keep at it, even though every bit of our suppressed realism or nihilism calls out against it.

I want you to know it's okay, though. It's okay to hold onto that shit fantasy, because it's all we have; it's all we have that can make us better, that can make any of this better, really.

I'm not a very rich girl.
All I can offer you is my heart.
It isn't much and it won't last very long,
But it's yours, so no take backs.
You broke and ran out the store
Before I could tag you with the price,
An eternity of emotional neediness
And instant gratification.

This poem needs time and work and love, it's just an idea right now. I'll come back to it and actually create something out of this---I'll coax a story from the empty words.

Good night, for now.


P.S. The picture was taken at a thrift shop---we were looking for funky jewelry. I totally had glasses like these growing up. Yes, I was (and still am) a loser.

Friday, April 3

Too Sleepy For Clever Titles...

Two of my besties aren’t talking to me at the moment. The first is giving me the silent treatment because I somewhat confessed my feelings for him again (yes, again. How many times am I going to let the same kid break my heart? I have no idea…). The second is in some weird funk because she thinks there’s a great cosmic conspiracy out to ruin her life---so she’s not talking to anyone, last time I checked. I’ve still got the giraffe, though, if that’s any consolation.

I need more friends.

Gabi says that I shouldn’t let this bad experience(s) stop me from putting myself out there. She says it’s a brave sort of thing.

I don’t feel very brave. I feel defeated. Being open hurts. Being vulnerable is stupid. But I know I wouldn’t want to be any other way. I don’t want to live my life without taking chances, without challenging the status quo. Sure, sometimes it’ll back fire and bitch slap you like you wouldn’t believe (example: right now), but it’s better than doing nothing and always wishing you had. I’m at least going to try.

I’m exhausted and thankful that I only had this morning to revel in my stupidity. Working isn’t as fun as it was at Manhattan. There aren’t college kids running around the place, so there isn’t much goofing off. Oh well, at least I won’t mess up nearly as much. Maybe they won’t fire me this time….?

I was going to go to bed, but I’ve received a cryptic text from John telling me to sign on aim in a little bit, so I’m just going to wait this one out.

I’m starving. I just realized that all I had to eat today was a few Twizzlers I mooched off of Gabi and a garlic knot.

I’m not going to write a poem. I’m going to curl up next to my dad in the family room, like some wounded kitten, and I’m going to listen to him tell my mom all about his day.


Poem Three...

Co-written by Adriana Nieves (

Adriana is upset.
She is a clam.
Which is a metaphor.
Gabi is embarrassed.
She was called out.
Which is a description.
Athia is in here.
Boustique doesn’t know why.
Which is a fact.
This is a crappy poem.
It has no point.
Which is life.


P.S. I might write a proper one later, if I survive the night.


Wow. I genuinely think that it's humanly impossible to feel any stupider than I do right now.

Earth, do me a favor and swallow me whole. Thanks.

Thursday, April 2

Poem Two...

Today was too long. I felt bad for eating cake instead of going to the gym, but doing the servers’ bitch work tonight was enough of a work-out.

I don’t know what sort of poem to write, so I’m just going to write what I thought of on the car ride home.

It’s strange how little slices of life join your arsenal of memories,
Called back, craving your attention, demanding the ache of longing.
I listen to the oldies track list played in my daddy’s car,
Which I stumbled upon by chance or fate or something divine.

They were the melodies and beats of a different time, a different girl,
A little girl who spoke to God, as though He would listen,
As though He was her only friend
A little girl who would sit in her father’s lungi
Like he was the sturdy tree that held the swing
During her many imaginary trips to a sunny summer farm
Where hopscotch and peanut butter sandwiches were the order of the day.

The track finishes, and the mood shifts suddenly.
My toes are no longer sunken in the Jersey shoreline,
Nor am I playing with dough along side my father,
Pretending to flip and twirl flying discs that could reach the moon.
Instead, I'm back to the verge of adulthood,
This scary place everyone keeps reminding of.

Wednesday, April 1

Poem One...

It's National Poetry Month. I'm going to write a new poem everyday. A few will be winners, while most will suck.

I wrote this five minutes ago. It's not very good, but I honestly didn't have much time today. But, I did it. :)

Today, after exhausting myself with tiring matters
Of a trivial life
I’ve decided to be indulgent.
I’m going to dedicate verses and stanzas
Marbled monuments erected in my word processor,
To the tortured soul within.
Oh, how my tears weep upon the page
In a never ending stream of metaphor
Stagnant clocks chiming when you sleep,
And tiny boats sailing across a four inch pond.
Add a hyperbole in good taste,
I roasted on my long and lonely walk of life.
It’s true, indeed.
Sprinkle inner struggle, just a dash.
To eat humans, or not to eat humans,
Should never be the question.
Stir in angst counterclockwise
Before the moon rises on the third night.
I would begin to explain how misunderstood I truly am,
But that would defeat the purpose
Of any self-respecting misanthrope.