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#2 in the series - Center Cut

A badass woman, a badass truck, money found in the Atlantic and the bad guys want their money back. There isn't any conflict here, nothing to see or read. However...

Center Cut - A Sam Hook series

A badass woman, a badass truck, money found in the Atlantic and the bad guys want their money back. There isn't any conflict here, nothing to see or read. However...

The world is preventing Sam from achieving his goal. Book 1 he confronts the organization and saves a woman from a perv. Book 2 he meets a couple that found money floating in the Atlantic.The bad guys want it back.Both times Sam is torn from his new profession.

Duck Hook

Sam Hook struggles as a professional golfer. At his first tournament Sam uses his Navy SEAL skills by preventing death from a virus unleashed by a secret organization. In the middle of a restaurant Sam sees a woman on the floor unconscious... What's he supposed to do?

Sam Hook left the Navy SEALS for a new career as a professional golfer. He meets new friends that found bundles of cash floating in the Atlantic. The owners want their money back. What move does Sam make? #BookBoost #BookLover #thriller #writersofinstagram #WritingCommunity https://amazon.com/Center-Cut-Sam-Hook-novel-ebook/dp/

#poetry #poem #poet #poemsofig #poemsofinstagram #poetryisnotdead #originalpoem #writers #creative #writing #writingcommunity #musings #feelings #myheartisahotel #heart #helpless #life #melancholy

Writer's block sucks. Agree? #poetry #poem #poet #poemsofig #poemsofinstagram #poetryisnotdead #originalpoem #writers #creative #writing #writingcommunity #musings #writersblock #inspiration #blues #poetrycommunity

*sigh longer* #poetry #poem #poet #poemsofig #poemsofinstagram #poetryisnotdead #originalpoem #writers #creative #writing #writingcommunity #musings #staygold #beloved #relationship #love

*sigh* #poetry #poem #poet #poemsofig #poemsofinstagram #poetryisnotdead #originalpoem #writers #creative #writing #writingcommunity #musings #tired #trying #selflove #dreams

#poetry #poem #poet #poemsofig #poemsofinstagram #poetryisnotdead #originalpoem #writers #creative #writing #writingcommunity #musings #ramblings #cantsleep #midnightmadness #latenight

Isn't it interesting how, depending on who is the storyteller, each story can have multiple meanings and point of view even though they are exactly the same story? Even these storytellers may view each other as the ignorant ones. #poetry #poem #poet #poemsofig #poemsofinstagram #poetryisnotdead #originalpoem #writers #creative #writing #writingcommunity #musings #ramblings #people #manipulated #memories #life

Lover #poetry #poem #poet #poemsofig #poemsofinstagram #poetryisnotdead #originalpoem #writers #creative #writing #writingcommunity #love #musings #ramblings #relationship

Something that came across my mind during my daily daydream #poetry #poem #poet #prose #poemsofig #poemsofinstagram #poetryisnotdead #originalpoem #writers #creative #writing #writingcommunity #love #beauty #thoughts #philosophy

i keep crying

i keep crying at the littlest things, and i cry that i do that to myself. i let every little thing tear me down and break me until i feel like i'm worth nothing. but who do i have if i keep making these walls so my feelings don't get hurt. who do i have if i can't let myself experience anything?

i don't know. who DO i have? if i can't even believe in myself or anyone to not make me cry. and then again it's all me, always me and my feelings that i feel too heavily.

some days

some days i get so lonely, but i also get so tired from saying hello. so i stare at the wall. the nice, blank, non-talkative wall. and it stares back at me. shining the sun in its reflection, letting the moon take its color. and days pass by. and still, i sit there staring at the wall. waiting, watching, my life pass me by.

so there i remain. staring at a wall that won't hurt my feelings, won't say i'm not enough, and won't take me for granted.

It’s easy to say

It’s easy to say I hope you’ve been well, than calling me up and having a meaningful conversation. It’s easy to say I support you, than showing up on the night of my performance. It’s easy to tell everyone that you know me, than actually knowing how I'm doing that day. It’s easy to say I hope you had a good day, than asking how my day went. It's easy to say I hope you get better, than supporting me on each step of the way. But I'd like to think loving me would be easy.

I’ve been losing my appetite

I’ve been losing my appetite, and no it hasn’t been recently — it’s been years.

My whole life actually. It’s always been like this.

Have I always been scary to look at?

I lay on the floor of my room staring at my ceiling through the gaps of broken fingers, wondering if I’ll ever change. I don’t know.

That takes strength though, right? I don’t know if I have any more of that left. The fight in me has disappeared.

The only ones fighting for me now are my parents shaking my frail body like a rag-doll as I stare into the abyss reminding me that I’m still alive. That I need to drink water. That I need to eat. That I need to take it step by step.

But all I feel is this impending doom. I’m tired of everything. Everyone. Me. I'm tired of myself feeling tired. I’m mean and I’m usually never mean. Why am I being so mean? Especially, to myself.

Someone once told me eating wasn’t meant to be enjoyed, it was meant for survival. I appreciate the way they tried to help. But I think they failed to realize I’m tired of surviving. I’m exhausted, actually.

So I’ve— like always, been losing my appetite. Everything tastes bland, everything is so uninteresting, and everything isn’t worth eating for.

like I’m five again

I hear the distinct footsteps across hallway floors, voices ricocheting off thin walls, cabinets slammed with force, and the door of the fridge being thrown off its hinges.

“I thought we moved passed this”, a thought that runs across my mind often. But it seems like we haven’t, and I’m hiding in the depths of my closet with puffy eyes, arms with scars, and knees to my heart. like I’m five again.

Every scream and yell triggers a shake from my bones, clattering from the last meal I had last night. Teeth clenched in aptitude and tears falling down with every hitch. like I’m five again.

I double check if my door is locked & if I have enough blocking it by force. Because words are words and threats are threats, but actions to end my life are much quicker.

So quietly I hide back in the nook of my darkened closet, tears so quiet that only the ants can hear them. Hiding this part of my life like it’s another Tuesday morning, smile gracing my hallow cheeks, and telling myself everything will go back to normal. because it’s just like I’m five again.

I miss you like

I miss you like the moon misses the waves of the shore, lingering to bring it closer to its halo.

But you miss me like a shooting star in the sky on the brightest night in the city.

I’ve missed you like a dwarf planet yearning to be pulled back in its sun’s orbit.

But you miss me like a summer breeze on the hottest day in July.

It’s not the same, and it may never be. It’s never enough, and I blame myself for it. I hate myself most for longing to be missed by you like winter’s first snowfall.

Everyday

Today my mom asked me why I haven’t eaten all day. This cycle goes on everyday.

Today my dad asked me why I didn’t want to eat all day. This question gets asked everyday.

Today my sister knocked on my door, dragged me out of bed, and asked me why I haven’t moved all day. This happens everyday.

Maybe I’m broken. No, I know the choices I made have been decided.

Maybe I’m frozen. No, I know the world is still moving on without me.

I don’t eat because I want to be pretty. The answer is simple really— I sit in my room staring at my wall because I simply don’t want to exist anymore. And some part of me hopes that one less meal means one less day of my life. I linger for just one day where I don't feel terrible anymore.

I don’t move because I don’t want to get hurt, I don’t say anything because I’m afraid of being a bother. I see the way people ignore my eyes, see my smile and think, "oh they’re fine." I hear the way people are afraid to ask how I’m doing. I hear the way they fumble their words of reassurance. I can see their schedules filled with plans that don’t include me. Or maybe— it's all in my head again & people don't hate me, I do.

So here I sit, staring at the wall, hoping that maybe tomorrow isn’t like everyday.

A thank you letter to my sisters

Today you knocked on my door, and dragged me out of bed. You placed my cat in my arms, hoping I’d feel comfort instead of dread. It helped, for awhile, until you made me breakfast and coffee past noon. I yawned and cried, and you held my hand as I sobbed.

I gave you knives, scissors, & tweezers to place away for awhile. Telling you I can’t see them or I’ll harm myself & be hostile.

We’ve have our moments, and for them I am sorry. But I know if I fall I’ll always have my sister to catch me & carry.

Sisterhood is sacred, honest, & true. And forever may I be grateful of being blessed by you.

When I fainted, you placed me in bath water, & picked up my frail body off the floor. Heartbroken that the path towards healing was one that would feel evermore.

I remember when we were little and you would cover my ears with headphones, the vinyls playing loudly to fade out the screaming outside our doors. Playing games with me in the middle of the night while our parents roamed the streets looking for our missing brother. When I would get nightmares and you would share your half of the bed. When we had a fridge more than half empty and you would half a raw ramen and we would bite into them as they tasted like lead. When we would hide in the closet as they screamed at us to behave or they’d knock us out dead. When you reminded me to hold my pride as men would prey on me, praying we’d seek our revenge. When you handed me my favorite trinket as the ambulance took me away, holding my hand, & telling me I’ll be okay.

Many times have I failed finding sisterhood in others— and never does it touch the same. The lack of compassion is jarring, nothing can compare, or even aim.

There are too many who do not understand, the beauty of sisterhood & the chaos in its wonderland.

For my sisters I am grateful. Forever & ever.

May I try to live another day, just for my sisters.

Why am I the exception?

I should’ve seen it from the start, perhaps I was always a henchman sent to do your biddings. but when it came to my knees being scraped, I got up on my own. I covered my cuts with bandages I found used on the side of the road. or maybe I was seeking comfort in places where I shouldn't have. I always do this. I'm so naive. I wish I didn't fall for every nicety. Sometimes I wish I was meaner. But it hurts me to be mean, and it hurts to be nice to myself too.

I feel like everyone hates me

I feel like everyone hates me, I know it's in my head. Or maybe it's just the fact I've been boiling inside with anger bright as red. Or maybe it's a hidden animosity, where I tried so hard to be liked, that from the start it was set up for failure because I shifted myself outright. Maybe if I was louder they'd like me more? Maybe if I had more followers they'd think I was worth keeping around? Maybe if I was prettier they'd think I wasn't worth comparing? Maybe if I kept my tears quiet I wouldn't be so annoying? I'm sorry. I hope it's all in my head.

I walk underneath your shadow

no matter where I walk it's under your shadow. right beneath yours, intertwined. I don't know whether to be grateful or not. whether or not it's something I need. but on days where I need your shadow to keep me away from the sun, you walk a little farther, never there when I need it most. these days it seems that through distance, as you walk each step a little faster and farther, I can no longer feel your warmth. and your shadow has been making me feel colder. so maybe it's time to just stop moving and let your shadow walk alone. because I think I'm ready for this shadow to finally be my own.

I have an issue with facing things head on

I have an issue with facing things head on, with sitting down and telling myself… okay this is what you do. I used to be good at it. I used to be the one people would go to when they needed a whole spreadsheet on what to do, on what classes to take, on what goals to set up for themselves. But something about UCLA drained me, even if it was just two years. It sucked what soul I had left. It stole my youthful energy, my aspirations of who I wanted to be, of my hope, my dreams, and most definitely my spirit. I thrived there, yes I did, but at the cost of my sanity. Everyday I walked those halls I could feel the pressure crippling me down to my core. My feet crumbling beneath me and my sense of self slowly being overshadowed by the ideals of an institution overthrown with wh!te supremacy. Unfortunately, it led me to the darkest pits I could feel in my bones. I wanted to fade away and never exist. Maybe it was my fault, a young girl moving to the big city in hopes of finally being free. Maybe it was all my fault that I never paced myself. Maybe it truly was all my fault, after the world shut down for a couple years I finally saw hope to escape, hope that masqueraded underneath a veil of thief. I won’t be ungrateful for being able to experience what I have, meet some amazing brilliant minds, but also I won’t be ever truly so blind to say this place didn’t leave me with the most of scars. Or maybe, this place exposed the scars that I thought I had already healed from. “I wish I did this differently, I wish I did that differently.” No. I did my best everyday, actually. I did what I never thought possible, actually. I’ve been working so hard to be where I am right now since I was a young teenage girl, so why… So why do I still feel— like a failure? Will this feeling ever go away? I’m so close to the finish line, yet my energy to keep running is gone, and I hate myself for it.

“I only asked for forever once”

I wasn’t asking for much, was I? Just a hand that wouldn’t let go when life got heavier than love. Just eyes that could see the mess inside me and say “stay anyway.” I only asked for forever once. Just once. But forever is expensive when people have pockets full of half-promises and hearts stitched together with exit wounds. They said “I love you” like it was currency, spent fast, forgot faster. But me? I meant every word like an oath. I carved it into my ribs — I don’t love on rental, I love like home. And maybe that’s my tragedy — giving forever to people who were only passing through. So here I am again, writing poems to ghosts, building altars out of ache, loving harder in memory than I was ever loved in real time. And yet — I’d still do it all again. Because some hearts don’t know how to love small.