Photo Vomit [#12]: Sunshine. Books. Poetry.


 If only the burst of sunshine

could inspire me to write,

that one great novel

you and I could love.


If only these books could speak to my mind,

of stories and tales

from their pages

to my hands.


If only I could rest on the pillows of your words,

perhaps the strong verbs

could summon the peace I deserve.

If time and silence were on my side,

perhaps I could speak

a language so divine.

Photo Vomit is a periodical feature on my blog where I post pictures that inspire my creativity.
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Confessions of an Addict [26]: Lazaretta?



“My dear, find what you love and let it kill you. Let it drain you of all. Let it cling onto your back and weigh you down into an eventual nothingness. Let it kill you and devour your remains. For all things will kill you, both slowly, and fastly, but it’s much better to be killed by a lover. ” – Falsely Yours by Charles Bukowski.

Some of you are probably wondering where I’ve been the last few weeks, huh? Well, aside from my constant whining about work and my inability to find the right balance between all the stuff that I do outside of blogging and reading, the tap has been opened. This is pretty much what’s been occupying my life at the moment. I’ve been writing – not stories, mind you. But poems. If you follow my Instagram account or my Tumblr, you would know that poetry has commandeered what little spare time I have. This thing, unfortunately is like a virus, but one that is a welcome infection. It has no cure or remedy. All I can do is to let it run its course. You also can’t force it. If you have to force it out of you, then it’s probably shit. I think Charles Bukowski said the same thing as well. Brilliant man.

I remember a post I did a while ago complaining about my muse being a cold-hearted wench who’d so cruelly abandoned me. And now, she seems to have come back in full force. I try not to suppress it, though. And it’s not like I can. I tried to remember what prompted this sudden burst of inspiration, and everything points to this lovely typewriter. It works like a charm and the clickity-clack sound it makes is music to my ears. Sometimes, I’ll sit there and type nonsensical stuff just because I want to hear it. I’m worried though. If I ran out of ribbon, does that mean my poems will stop writing itself?

What about you? What do you do outside of reading and blogging?

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Book Inspired Poetry [4]: Freakboy by Kristin Elizabeth Clark

LGBTMonth002_zps097c16f9I know who I am
Inside this uncomfortable skin
A fearless warrior
Warring myself from within.

At times I know who I want
And where I want to be
Some days it’s hard to figure out
My own identity.

But I know I was born in the wrong body
My soul lives in fear of its enemy
I wish someone would rip the parts that don’t belong
So I can find the one I was supposed to be born.

I want to stop lying,
show the world the real me
that one that’s buried deep
within this false identity.

I read this book a couple of weeks ago and have made such an impact that it inspired this poetry. Only a few books in my life has ever done that. Sometimes, a book doesn’t have to be perfect or so great that I gave it the highest praise; it just has to have made an impression.

17261129“From the outside, Brendan Chase seems to have it pretty easy. He’s a star wrestler, a video game aficionado, and a loving boyfriend to his seemingly perfect match, Vanessa. But on the inside, Brendan struggles to understand why his body feels so wrong—why he sometimes fantasizes having long hair, soft skin, and gentle curves. Is there even a name for guys like him? Guys who sometimes want to be girls? Or is Brendan just a freak?

In Freakboy’s razor-sharp verse, Kristin Clark folds three narratives into one powerful story: Brendan trying to understand his sexual identity, Vanessa fighting to keep her and Brendan’s relationship alive, and Angel struggling to confront her demons.”

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LGBT Poetry Challenge


This post was supposed to have gone up last week, but since I’ve been incredibly busy, I was not able to post it. I thought I’d just go ahead and post it anyway. Again, if you want to check out all the wonderful posts and happenings in celebration of LGBT month, go visit Cayce’s and Laura’s blogs.


 Fear of being who we are is a staunch hindrance to being happy; staunch, but not insurmountable.


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Many Thanks!

It is that time of the year

when orange blossoms
and clear, cool days are near.
Sweaters, pumpkins and piles 
of autumn leaves
and hot sunny days
for which we grieve. 
It is also a day for Canadians to give thanks
for our health, for the love 
and the blessings we received. 
I’m sure there are more
for which we are thankful for,
I, for one, have a list to explore.
For my husband who just paid off
my bills – who, by the way, looked green and a little ill
when he saw exactly how much I spent
and said my vice he can no longer supplement. 
For my kids who gave me headaches 
on a regular basis
but never forgets to give me hugs,
i love yous and nightly kisses.
For the girls who work
at my bookstore
who don’t know exactly how much
I adore 
and though they could
no longer recommend a book I don’t own
it’s still nice to talk to someone
who shares my love and passion.
For everyone who gives this blog
some comment love
I know you’re too nice
to say how much I suck
But I love you all just the same
you’ve given me reasons
to keep on living blogging.
Happy Thanksgiving Day, Canada! 
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Confessions of an Addict [18]: Distracted Blogger is Distracted

You sit in front of your desk

determined to write
thoughts on the books
you just read in delight
You crack your knuckles 
– shake the tingles off your hands
– straighten up your spine
– look for music that inspires.
You go on You Tube
find the band that you like
half an hour later, 
you sit there mesmerized.
Many more minutes ticked by
and soon you’re blinking in time
with the twitching cursor
and a page all in white. 
You’re no close to writing
the things you wanted to say
because of the blasted videos
and the music that’s blaring. 
You close your screen
decide to read the blogs you’re following
comment on posts
but still none is helping.
You decide to postpone
whatever it is you’re supposed to write
hurt yourself laughing
on cats and Vine viewing
Ahh the life of a distracted blogger
the curse of a book hoarder
your fleeting attention span
screwed the schedule that you’ve planned.
I sat in my brand new office trying to write reviews for books that I’ve read recently. Right now, I think I have at least four. I just get easily distracted – may it be whatever music video is on You Tube or my kids who needs something or other, I just can’t keep to a schedule that I make for myself. One link leads to another until I can’t remember what I was doing to begin with. 
But hey, I find that my new blogging station at home promotes creativity. It’s just…I ended up writing something that has nothing to do with the blog. I think it’s because it’s brighter in here than in my little nook in the bedroom. I also have a bigger desk now which tremendously help with the much-needed space for clutter. And trust. I can amass clutter like it’s nobody’s business. You’d think a basement office would be gloomy and dank but I’m proud to say mine’s none of those. Though I need a sweater when I’m down here. It’s frigid. 
What about you? What type of music do you use when you’re blogging? Or do you find music to be a distraction when you write? If so, where else do you find inspiration?
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Book Inspired Poetry [3]: Y by Marjorie Celona

It’s a story of a girl
left on the steps of a Y.
Growing up listlessly
wondering hopelessly why. 

An infant aware
soon as she opened her eyes.
A violent birth
and the impending demise.

Days turned to years
in wonder and impatience.
Nothing could ground her,
and thought that
love’s an indulgence.

She’s wary of anyone
who might show her compassion.
Always defensive,
second guessing their intentions.

To those who love her – 
fully and honestly,
she’s out of reach
all closed up tightly.

A slip of a girl
with one blinded eye.
Stronger than she looks
for a four foot nothing high.

She draws her strength
in knowing that she survived
the violent birth
and in reluctant love she had thrived.

Y by Marjorie Celona
Published August 1st, 2012
Read in March 2013

SUMMARY (from Goodreads):

“Y. That perfect letter. The wishbone, fork in the road, empty wineglass. The question we ask over and over. Why? . . . My life begins at the Y.” So opens Marjorie Celona’s highly acclaimed and exquisitely rendered debut about a wise-beyond-her-years foster child abandoned as a newborn on the doorstep of the local YMCA. Swaddled in a dirty gray sweatshirt with nothing but a Swiss Army knife tucked between her feet, little Shannon is discovered by a man who catches only a glimpse of her troubled mother as she disappears from view. That morning, all three lives are forever changed. Bounced between foster homes, Shannon endures abuse and neglect until she finally finds stability with Miranda, a kind but no-nonsense single mother with a free-spirited daughter of her own. Yet Shannon defines life on her own terms, refusing to settle down, and never stops longing to uncover her roots—especially the stubborn question of why her mother would abandon her on the day she was born.

Brilliantly and hauntingly interwoven with Shannon’s story is the tale of her mother, Yula, a girl herself who is facing a desperate fate in the hours and days leading up to Shannon’s birth. As past and present converge, Ytells an unforgettable story of identity, inheritance, and, ultimately, forgiveness. Celona’s ravishingly beautiful novel offers a deeply affecting look at the choices we make and what it means to be a family, and it marks the debut of a magnificent new voice in contemporary fiction.

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Book Inspired Poetry [2]: Smoke by Ellen Hopkins

Smoke [Burned, #2] by Ellen Hopkins
Publication Date: September 10th, 2013
Margaret K. McElderry
Format: ARC
Source: Publisher
Rating: 5 out of 5 Stars

Pattyn Von Stratten’s father is dead, and Pattyn is on the run. After far too many years of abuse at the hands of her father, and after the tragic loss of her beloved Ethan and their unborn child, Pattyn is desperate for peace. Only her sister Jackie knows what happened that night, but she is stuck at home with their mother, who clings to normalcy by allowing the truth to be covered up by their domineering community leaders. Her father might be finally gone, but without Pattyn, Jackie is desperately isolated. Alone and in disguise, Pattyn starts a new life, but is it even possible to rebuild a life when everything you’ve known has burned to ash and lies seem far safer than the truth?

Choking on emotions
on my way to work,

gutted and raw over a

Two girls –
victims of violence
and circumstance.
Courageous and fearful
of what lies ahead.

Some say truth shall set you free
they’d beg to differ,

vehemently disagree.
The truth they know
will become their prisons
cages of public scrutiny and damnation.

The religion they know
harbours liars –
instilling false hope
in exchange for silence.

But how long

can they hide behind
their veils?
Scorn from a society
with which they were failed.

In the end it’s one or the other
facing consequences
of a lie to protect one another.


I read this book a while back and couldn’t help but write a poem about it. That’s just the kind of influence Hopkins have. You’re either rendered speechless or you’ll find yourself writing poems about her book. And while mine is not in the same class as her writing, I’m pretty proud and glad of what Ms. Hopkins was able to incite. Truth be told, I was on a writing slump before I read Burned and I think that’s why I’m doubly appreciative of her writing.

Five stars said everything I felt about this book. Trust me, my poem and words were paltry compared to the swirl of feelings inside me. She left me feeling raw, like I just have been through an emotional upheaval.

These two books were the only ones of Ms. Hopkins’ works that I’ve read so far and I’m a little awestruck by how real and honest they were. If this series is to continue on, I’d be grateful. But if Hopkins decides this is it, then I’ll be happy too. Truth is, I’m satisfied with how their lives turn out; I’m not going to question all the seemingly impossible scenarios and convenience of how it ended. Regardless, I’m content and happy and there’s not a thing in the world that could make the story better.

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Close Encounters

My bags are packed

ready to rock and roll
say goodbye
to a city – 
once unchartered
but never droll.
Let’s take a last 
look see, 
make sure we don’t forget
pick up our trash
leave a few dollars
for housekeeping is not free.

We locked the door
dragged the bags on their wheels
tracks on the carpet
bumping our heels. 
We get down to the lobby
we call for a taxi
as we wait inside
stave off the humidity.
I looked to my right
and there I see, 
the reason for our trip
the reason to be

So yeah. Caleb Followill, the lead vocals for the band I stalk when I can, stayed at the same hotel my husband and I stayed at when we went to see Rock for Oklahoma back in July. I mean, I literally froze when I saw him. It was like, I didn’t know what to do with myself. I think I peed in my pants a little. And no, I didn’t get an autograph because I’m a coward. I was scared he would snub me. And I didn’t want to lose my respect for him. So I just kinda unsurreptitiously took pictures of him while be has having his breakfast with a friend. His wife was also there, Lily Aldridge – a Victoria Secret model who’s every bit as beautiful but surprisingly not quite tall.  

This is not the first time we’ve encountered celebrities on our trips. There was one time when we went to Arizona for a concert – ironically enough, a Kings of Leon concert. And there, sitting on a bench just outside the airport was…

Larry Fitzgerald, wide receiver for Arizona Cardinals. 
Again, I couldn’t bear to bother the guy. Husband wanted to get his picture taken with him but the headphones kinda gave him the ‘back the fuck off and leave me alone’ vibe. So yeah, I just  casually snapped his picture. 
I’m hoping that the next time we see another celebrity, I’ll grow a pair and actually approach them. 
So my question to you is this: Who was the last celebrity you’ve seen in person?
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Blank. Blinking. Cursor.

I got nothing.
Not a sentence.
Not a phrase.
Not even a freaking word.
I have read three books.
Written zero reviews.
I have attempted to write
But I’ve got nothing.
Changed sceneries
Cleaned my desk
Forced inspiration
From the depths
Of my despair –
not despair.
All I want to do
Is read.
Not write.
Not think.
I’m sorry.  
Not because
I haven’t written.
Not because
I refused to.
It’s because
I can’t. 
I hope to be back by August. 

I’m just experiencing some creative difficulties. 

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