Written around 6 or 7 years ago...not much has changed. Ha.
I've come to realize, after some reflection, what it is that I need in my next potential "social experiment partner," (I'm not a fan of labels) in order for me to know that there is a chance that this individual might stick around a bit...actually not even that, just that that individual will have an intense impact on me in one way or another and "do it for me" (one of the most awesome "relationships," although we had no label and it was very short-lived was truly one of the illest). I want to make it absolutely clear...these are not qualities that mean I will like someone. They're qualities that mean I'll continue liking them to a point where I'm impacted by them...the initial spark/attraction/interest must already be present. This is probably the most corny/sappy/sentimental you'll ever hear me but...here goes.
QUALIFYING FACTORS
1) To be able to be so comfortable and free with him that we can sit in the car, not say one word to each other, listen to music, feel each other, and drive with absolutely no destination.
2) He's a non-sheep
3) When we're together there's no such thing as awkward silence, actually while in each other's presence silence is quite comforting.
4) We can slow dance in his living room with with no music playing
5) We meditate together
6) We fuck the shit out of each other's minds
7) I can play hackie sack, pool, video games, whatever...all things I really suck at but like to do anyway, and he tries to teach me, I still don't learn shit, but it's ok cause we had maaaaaaaaaad fun.
8) We laugh...A LOT
9) He understands that just cause I'm not in the mood to talk doesn't necessarily mean there's something wrong.
10) He can act like a complete fool in front of me
11) I can act like a complete fool in front of him
12) When I'm in his presence I want to rape him and I'm comfortable enough to act on it (I'm shy...at first)
13) He'll cook with me every once in a while
14) He understands my motivating factors for playing piano and violin and why I don't feel the need or desire to play for others...but he still wants to hear me play
15) The terms humility and humbleness mean something to him
16) He is aware of his health
17) He knows what a blackbook is and understands why I cherish mine so and why it is absolutely necessary for me to take it with me everywhere
18) I fiend and hang onto his scent like a junkie does with crack and when I come home I smell my clothes and smile because they're reminiscent of him
19) I usually don't bother arguing if I'm annoyed or upset, but with him, I actually care enough to do so.
20) He doesn't judge the homeless
21) We respect one another
22) When he falls asleep next to me I look at him and it makes me smile
23) He's a slightly more aggressive male version of myself
24) Sarcasm and wit battles are appreciated and are our version of mental foreplay
25) He's passionate about life
26) He is my best friend
27) He understands the difference between knowledge and wisdom
28) When I talk about hip hop/arts/music/poetry/spirituality for hourrrrrs, he doesn't think it's weird...because he does it to
29) I don't explain myself to him because I feel I have to...I do it because I want to.
30) He doesn't waste my time and is considerate of it because he realizes I have other things and interests going on in my life...and he does too
31) This holiday I already know what I want to get him next year...and I probably get him it now, just because
32) He's willing to teach me how to drive stick and go with me to the gun-range
33) I can completely be myself around him without fear of being judged...easier said than done
34) I can learn from him
35) He's good with kids
36) We can spend an entire day doing absolutely nothin and have the dopest time ever
37) When we watch movies at the crib we often times have a hard time making it to the end of the movie...if you catch my drift
38) We both don't care about "what we are" and our label cause we're just enjoying "what we have" and how dope the moment is
39) He lives spiritually as opposed to just talking about it
40) Play-fighting is necessary
41) When we dance (he must be willing to dance) we dance as if no one is watching cause we're too much into each other to frankly give a shit about anyone else
42) He gets why I want to adopt children and he does too
43) He understands the dopeness associated with chillen at bookstores, art shows, and little hole in the wall lounges
44) He thinks it's cool that my mom does charts and tarots and that I'm into studying the occult, conspiracy, etc., and even though he might not know that much about it, it triggers his interest
45) His corny ass comments/habits/mannerisms that would normally erk the hell outta me...well, they're cute
46) His random body parts, like his forearms, calves, shoulders, the back of his neck, etc...are the most incredibly sexy turn on ever... to the point where that rape feeling I mentioned previously becomes reality
47) His smile makes me smile
48) His musical taste is broad
49) He has ill style, but is confident enough to where he doesn't have to put it on display all the time...sweats and a beater never looked so hot
50) He's not a cocky fuck, it's just most people can't appreciate his bluntness/straightforwardness/sarcasm and someone who just likes themselves
51) He let's me be on top, but he's man enough to also take control, and good enough for me to let him be...visualize a predator prey role reversal type struggle that goes back and forth
52) We can waste an entire roll of film taking complete bullshit pictures of each other...and they're priceless
53) Money isn't his sole and primary motivating factor in life but he's rational enough to realize financial security is important
54) The terms social loner and practical idealist make sense to him
55) He can keep up and appreciates my randomness because he's just as random...and he realizes that they're really not that random, it's just that my linear train of thought moves in light years
56) During sex our breathing patterns force me to listen...hard, and make me sweat...harder
57) He buys me a card and actually writes something in it and knows that I mean it when I say that that means more to me than a bullshit gift
58) I can enjoy pleasing him sexually and feeling him inside of me in hopes of more than just reaching my peak or feeding my ego
59) He's charitable
60) He understands the necessity of giving each other space and that makes us want to be around each other more because our time together is voluntary not mandatory
61) He understands that I'm not yelling...I'm just passionate, expressive, and animated when I speak
62) He let's me pick at his back and his face
63) He doesn't necessarily completely understand me, but he's willing to try and accepts me for who I am
64) He agrees with my views on marriage...that marriage should only be a celebration of what's already there, and an unnecessary option, because the man I want to spend my life with, well, what we're going to have will be so secure and real that we will already be spiritually connected...marriage isn't the next step, it'll be an optional recognition of what's already there
65) He let's me do my occasional short-lived ranting and raving and let's it roll off of him because he realizes I'll get over it in a few minutes
Wednesday, December 21, 2011
Friday, December 9, 2011
Free Writing. Emphasis on 'free' and 'writing'.
Trying to write these days has been more than difficult; almost unnatural...But I'm a writer, right? Nah, prob not, just a vessel, who's chosen form of expression for an indefinite amount of time rather fancied the pen. But what to do in a world where pens and paper are but primitive tools to express primitive, thoughts? How am I supposed to feel a particular connection, a surge of warmth circulate through my tentacles of expression through a cold contraption, a mass produced contraption that's made my own handwriting unrecognizable to the portals of observation, otherwise known as my eyes. The connectors or synapses or whatevers between my emotions, thoughts and feelings and means of expressing the such are so...anti-social. My very own ideas have given me the cold shoulder...I suppose my fingertips haven't been getting enough circulation to feel their own warmth...to feel accompanied in the constant need or struggle to express. It's almost juvenile in a sense...narcissistic. A need to be recognized, acknowledged, for discovering or just unveiling the clusterfuck of sensations that most likely exist in us all...But I, said it first...and so eloquently, may I add. Maybe my ego is disappearing, maybe that's why implanting such words on a fixed medium seems so trivial amongst the greater scheme of things. Maybe I'm happier these days? since I don't have to talk to myself as much. Or maybe, my capacity for making words carry meaning has lost itself amongst the over-saturation of words primarily residing and bombarding our peripherals. Who's writing is this? I've never looped an 's' or rounded out an 'e' in such a manner. And for whatever reason, I don't care to change it. If the content of my words lack in their methods of expression, than their rogue appearance encrypts a message beyond conscious comprehension. At this very moment it makes me so happy to write as I please, without the authoritative intrusive red line that is spell-check. How can we grow if we don't make mistakes. How am I expected to flowfully spew out my inner most subconscious nuances, how can I expect for things to so organically 'slip' if consistently, my thoughts, are continually being invaded by that awful squiggly red line. I know what I meant to write. How can I learn the difference between me 3 seconds ago in that dimension over there, and the self-actualization that has occurred from the second I crossed out that word or rewrote the same word four times over again because as I crossed, underlined, circled, scribbled, I actually figured out, all by myself, what I actually meant...to say. Look how messy that sentence is...and I finished it in a just a few brief moments. Look, how much I learned in those few brief moments. I don't want to delete my thoughts. I want them refined, I want to SEE the growth. How else am I expected to truly identify with them otherwise. My energies, my words, my motivations, are real. Why toss them in the eternal abyss that is our computer's recycling bin. That's so...final. And that's just unrealistic, nothing about our existence is final nor permanent, so why deny yourself of the person you were 30 seconds ago. Connect to your scribbles, make love to your crooked letters, embrace your pen's confusion. It's why you're HERE. Why you probably understand yourself better now than you did at the beginning of this piece. Why now your curves and loops are far more grandiose, almost pompous, and why that panic attack has magically...disappeared. Take it out on the countless pages that lie beneath your fist. Embed yourself in its fibers. They're there to comfort you. To let you make mistakes and tell you....it's OK. Be rebellious, write LOUDLY. Make the ink SCREAM. Bet you can't quite do that in Text Edit. So...bland. I want to almost not be able to decipher my words because they appear so unconventionally drawn out...but KNOW exactly what they say because their personality is ALIVE! Because their context is a 3-D experience.
I've said enough...you get the point.
(©) 2011 by Jessica Freites
Thursday, December 8, 2011
Tuesday, November 22, 2011
Wednesday, September 14, 2011
Suicide Lover
Personal fave...Written: Dec. 11, 2006
RIP Robert...
Suicide Lover
My suicide lover
We've come a long way over time
And cause of my baby I'm goin out with
style
and in the meanwhile
I just wanted to let you know that
I'm thankful for having you in my life
For the emotional roller coaster
ride
of excitement
you've provided
and now I'm ready and willin for you to slide up in it
cause
in my time of need
you gave my nonexistent life and
me
meaning
I remember in the beginning
First I'd start off with a long island
maybe followed by a line 'n
eventually in time
some crack rocks
and popped off bottle tops
so I could swallow my medley of pills
and we'd
just
...chill
as they flowed
down my throat
to the point where I almost
choked and overdosed
from this masochistic
deep-throat
and now
even better to get me wetter I'll make it extra sexy
and suck up just enough liquor til my liver shivers
like my clit in an epileptic fit until it just
quits...like the gun that'll be goin'
click click
after being thoroughly lit
cause I want some passionate hits
into my life that's abandoned and rampant of uninspiring
shit,
and so I want it hard and fast
with my pulsating eager finger that quivers on the trigger like
BLAST BLAST!!
as the gun busts its bullet nut
from its phallic barrel shaft,
ramming and fucking my brain
and it might seem
strange or even insane, but no one understands
i need you
because just the thought of you givin' it to me releases me from my carnally inflicted
pain
Life is cruel and neglecting
and when we're together you're just so attentive and protecting
Really,
the only sense of comfort I feel
is fromt the thought
of the sensual warmth of
cold steel
as the thin sharp blade
serenades,
seduces,
and caresses
my vein
only anxious for deep
penetra-
tion
where my orgasmic cum
is of
hot blood
rushing and escaping from the spiritual raping
that's led to this love affair with the blade
but
these secretions aren't of semen
they're of tears 'n
I'm afraid that I've reached my peak
and now I feel incredibly weak
But once again
thank you for making life seem less bleak
and saving me in the current moment
cause
my heavy breathin' and moanin'
was actually a blood curdling
cry from my
soul
to be,
in desperate hope
spiritually free...
(©) 2006 by Jessica Freites
Pushaman
For Mama...Written: Dec. 27, 2007
Pushaman...
If they say you are what you eat,
that must explain why there's so many fake-ass-mothafuckas out there
Cause when I look down at the space that occupies my plate
and all I see is fallacy consisten' of
monosodium glutamate,
potassium sorbate,
blue lake,
sodium nitrate,
and an array of sulfates…
all delightfully put together for us compliments of the
F. D. A.
and for the main entree
they'll be servin' up some sauteed,
I guess you could call it meat
with a side of Red. 40
smothered, simmered, basted, and glistening in
radiated heat
from being grilled to perfection
in a little box called a microwave,
making sure everything we ingest
becomes a catalyst
for a cancerous tumor fortress
in women's breasts
only to leave us distressed
under paramouting amounts of stress
because we're too coo coo for co-co puffs cracked the fuck out on our
OVERsweetened
OVERsaturated
OVERall
OVERprocessed
food that consistently leaves thee
always fatigued
explaining our physically and mentally
UNDERnourished levels of rest.
Although,
I know
my wallet is suffering from the catastrophic pressures of forced duress
since the only food types that seem to suffice
in NOT adding to the shortening of my already
scientifically coldly calculated span of life
are ridiculously
OVERpriced.
But, I'm FDA aristocratically, elitely, and royally fucked,
cause if an IV were to penetrate me this very moment,
I'll be bleeding a Pfizer concoction
that's led me to
OVERstand that our only option
is to prepare ourselves for yet another unforeseen plague of dis-ease
that'll just create another STATE OF EMERGENCY
leading to the need of an urgent vaccine.
See, the WAR is solely an illusion
to distract the masses to the selling of souls to the
TV Dinner God
who governs in the land of
prepackaged food AND minds
to promote RED ALERT LEVELS of
confusion.
And if you really want to speak on terror then I suggest we focus on the modern day
drug war, where we're all becoming
med whores, because their troops are creepin' inside you insides.
and we must start becoming aware of their
covert actions and unleashing of guerilla tactics
upon our cellular composition
cause all we seem to do is sit and listen
to the bullshit
this chemical dictator spits.
Where it lands, rests, and manifests within the confines of my mind and cerebral spinal cortex.
Trickling it's way down-…
…town
to Wall Street
to provide the funds to clone a society, or better yet said, herd
of patriotic sheep,
all in a reality where in actuality, there is
NO democrat or republican
when dealing with a Babylonian government.
Where there's no need for a warhead or a bomb
when all of our food is
palette friendly poison
fed to us to keep the physical ill, emotional depressed, and mind
n u m b
But it's ok…
that's why we got trusty ol' Zoloft.
And I know that those runnin' the medical industry already knew that
cause when you got politicians and doctors investin' in
darvocet,
percocet,
morphine,
and penicillin,
along with
viagra,
immuron, and
amitriptillin
and the answer to every child's behavioral problem is to create a
junkie hooked on ritalin;
and they wanna start bannin' vitamins cause God forbid there's the slightest chance of competition.
Let's re-evaluate
who's really the pushaman
and who is the
victim.
(©) 2007 by Jessica Freites
Pushaman...
If they say you are what you eat,
that must explain why there's so many fake-ass-mothafuckas out there
Cause when I look down at the space that occupies my plate
and all I see is fallacy consisten' of
monosodium glutamate,
potassium sorbate,
blue lake,
sodium nitrate,
and an array of sulfates…
all delightfully put together for us compliments of the
F. D. A.
and for the main entree
they'll be servin' up some sauteed,
I guess you could call it meat
with a side of Red. 40
smothered, simmered, basted, and glistening in
radiated heat
from being grilled to perfection
in a little box called a microwave,
making sure everything we ingest
becomes a catalyst
for a cancerous tumor fortress
in women's breasts
only to leave us distressed
under paramouting amounts of stress
because we're too coo coo for co-co puffs cracked the fuck out on our
OVERsweetened
OVERsaturated
OVERall
OVERprocessed
food that consistently leaves thee
always fatigued
explaining our physically and mentally
UNDERnourished levels of rest.
Although,
I know
my wallet is suffering from the catastrophic pressures of forced duress
since the only food types that seem to suffice
in NOT adding to the shortening of my already
scientifically coldly calculated span of life
are ridiculously
OVERpriced.
But, I'm FDA aristocratically, elitely, and royally fucked,
cause if an IV were to penetrate me this very moment,
I'll be bleeding a Pfizer concoction
that's led me to
OVERstand that our only option
is to prepare ourselves for yet another unforeseen plague of dis-ease
that'll just create another STATE OF EMERGENCY
leading to the need of an urgent vaccine.
See, the WAR is solely an illusion
to distract the masses to the selling of souls to the
TV Dinner God
who governs in the land of
prepackaged food AND minds
to promote RED ALERT LEVELS of
confusion.
And if you really want to speak on terror then I suggest we focus on the modern day
drug war, where we're all becoming
med whores, because their troops are creepin' inside you insides.
and we must start becoming aware of their
covert actions and unleashing of guerilla tactics
upon our cellular composition
cause all we seem to do is sit and listen
to the bullshit
this chemical dictator spits.
Where it lands, rests, and manifests within the confines of my mind and cerebral spinal cortex.
Trickling it's way down-…
…town
to Wall Street
to provide the funds to clone a society, or better yet said, herd
of patriotic sheep,
all in a reality where in actuality, there is
NO democrat or republican
when dealing with a Babylonian government.
Where there's no need for a warhead or a bomb
when all of our food is
palette friendly poison
fed to us to keep the physical ill, emotional depressed, and mind
n u m b
But it's ok…
that's why we got trusty ol' Zoloft.
And I know that those runnin' the medical industry already knew that
cause when you got politicians and doctors investin' in
darvocet,
percocet,
morphine,
and penicillin,
along with
viagra,
immuron, and
amitriptillin
and the answer to every child's behavioral problem is to create a
junkie hooked on ritalin;
and they wanna start bannin' vitamins cause God forbid there's the slightest chance of competition.
Let's re-evaluate
who's really the pushaman
and who is the
victim.
(©) 2007 by Jessica Freites
WORD!
Written August 9th, 2008
WORD!...
Poetical pistols pop off poisonous penetrative projectiles
that propel
profound proverbs and
pronounce pledges and prose
all perfectly off my palette
feeding pumping, injecting and numbing
yo' mind with nutritional paraphernalia
like a potent pick of some pristine and powerful puff of purple haze piff
that with every hit
makes you say
GOD DAAAAAAAAMN THIS IS SOME GOOOOOOD SHIIIT!!!
See, I'm a poet, a word connoisseur of sorts
a reporter and fragment contorter
And to write is my vice, plight, utter delight
and sure as hell
MY GOD GIVEN RIGHT!
My words at times may or may not rhyme
they may or may not ring nor chime
And you ask yourself why?...
Because they're passionate
like fists that want to kiss and reminisce
with your brain
to BUST knowledge into your domepiece
like BOOOOOM!!
with the force of a premie grasping onto the me m o r y...
of their mother's womb
or for most
grasping onto the fear of burying
their mental tombs
Emotionally impaled by the vibrations of
prefix and suffix fix-ations
to fix
my ailments
from the attack of complacent non-stimulations
which bombard us on every
TV Station, Radio Station, Train Station
to keep us all, well
station-ary
as opposed to spawning prose
written in the mental codes of visionaries
But before I unleash the spoken word shank
and vernacular attack
on your fiending and yearning for stimuli crack
and expansionary learning
Pppppppppause.
STOP
and play back the track
rearrange the jazzy free flow over the hard
boooom boooom boooom BAP!
and take a peak behind the mask
Cause I have a secret, you see,
my continual affair with a word, fragment or phrase
to my narcissistic dismay
is primarily need based
Since my psyche tends to get the best of me
and I've been neglecting her for a while now
So I'm being stalked and harassed by nervous
break...
d
o
w
n
s
which has led me to prowl in therapeutic sessioning
that results in no diagnosis and
only the verbal verdict of wordplay sentencing
And well,
I am merely parts of many
a life experience, cultivator, harvester and pack rat
articulating the pack of traps
that abruptly catch, pinch and grasp us
by our sensory follicles
resuscitating our visions
by passionately spitten'
pure liv-id liquids
into the cesspool of third-eye imprisonments
through this audible monocle
Otherwise known as my therapeutic chronicle
But I'm sure you all understand
because for the most part you're here
listening to me, a poet
sit up here and spit
letting every saliva droplet
to drop it
on the ones and twos
and back to the one
solely to son you
with my verbal voodoo
and thank you for making a societal misfits
words fit
because to fit in with the rest of the world's life context
would be
SOME REAL WACK SHIIIIIIIIT!!
...WORD
(©) 2008 by Jessica Freites
WORD!...
Poetical pistols pop off poisonous penetrative projectiles
that propel
profound proverbs and
pronounce pledges and prose
all perfectly off my palette
feeding pumping, injecting and numbing
yo' mind with nutritional paraphernalia
like a potent pick of some pristine and powerful puff of purple haze piff
that with every hit
makes you say
GOD DAAAAAAAAMN THIS IS SOME GOOOOOOD SHIIIT!!!
See, I'm a poet, a word connoisseur of sorts
a reporter and fragment contorter
And to write is my vice, plight, utter delight
and sure as hell
MY GOD GIVEN RIGHT!
My words at times may or may not rhyme
they may or may not ring nor chime
And you ask yourself why?...
Because they're passionate
like fists that want to kiss and reminisce
with your brain
to BUST knowledge into your domepiece
like BOOOOOM!!
with the force of a premie grasping onto the me m o r y...
of their mother's womb
or for most
grasping onto the fear of burying
their mental tombs
Emotionally impaled by the vibrations of
prefix and suffix fix-ations
to fix
my ailments
from the attack of complacent non-stimulations
which bombard us on every
TV Station, Radio Station, Train Station
to keep us all, well
station-ary
as opposed to spawning prose
written in the mental codes of visionaries
But before I unleash the spoken word shank
and vernacular attack
on your fiending and yearning for stimuli crack
and expansionary learning
Pppppppppause.
STOP
and play back the track
rearrange the jazzy free flow over the hard
boooom boooom boooom BAP!
and take a peak behind the mask
Cause I have a secret, you see,
my continual affair with a word, fragment or phrase
to my narcissistic dismay
is primarily need based
Since my psyche tends to get the best of me
and I've been neglecting her for a while now
So I'm being stalked and harassed by nervous
break...
d
o
w
n
s
which has led me to prowl in therapeutic sessioning
that results in no diagnosis and
only the verbal verdict of wordplay sentencing
And well,
I am merely parts of many
a life experience, cultivator, harvester and pack rat
articulating the pack of traps
that abruptly catch, pinch and grasp us
by our sensory follicles
resuscitating our visions
by passionately spitten'
pure liv-id liquids
into the cesspool of third-eye imprisonments
through this audible monocle
Otherwise known as my therapeutic chronicle
But I'm sure you all understand
because for the most part you're here
listening to me, a poet
sit up here and spit
letting every saliva droplet
to drop it
on the ones and twos
and back to the one
solely to son you
with my verbal voodoo
and thank you for making a societal misfits
words fit
because to fit in with the rest of the world's life context
would be
SOME REAL WACK SHIIIIIIIIT!!
...WORD
(©) 2008 by Jessica Freites
This Is the Life...
Throwback mini-gem...lol.
The path of living is on some dope skitzo shit
approached and flipped
into a battle of wits
with hidden agenda tricks full of covert operations and tactics
where the transitional final product is the immaculate gift
of the conception of one's
...LIFE
The trife life, basked in nebular limelights
where the enemy can't come to phase you since they're only dwellin' in
the 2nd dimension,
n'
missed the last ride on the express time continuum
bobbin' n' weavin'
bobbbbbin' n' weavin'
bobbin' n' weaaaaavin'
tetanus infected
jagged wrenches
Constantly attacking your voice of reason
and then you could end up like me and...
Smiling and breathing and moving and healing
Keeping the faith and embracing your inner heathen
Collecting the the day in your memory banks
Psalms sung by sparrows and freedom chants
Navigatin' odyssies next door
Comforter sessions on the spaceship floor
Loathing mediocrity whores
Embracing simplicity...and escaping the bored
This is the LIFE...
(©) 2010 by Jessica Freites
The path of living is on some dope skitzo shit
approached and flipped
into a battle of wits
with hidden agenda tricks full of covert operations and tactics
where the transitional final product is the immaculate gift
of the conception of one's
...LIFE
The trife life, basked in nebular limelights
where the enemy can't come to phase you since they're only dwellin' in
the 2nd dimension,
n'
missed the last ride on the express time continuum
bobbin' n' weavin'
bobbbbbin' n' weavin'
bobbin' n' weaaaaavin'
tetanus infected
jagged wrenches
Constantly attacking your voice of reason
and then you could end up like me and...
Smiling and breathing and moving and healing
Keeping the faith and embracing your inner heathen
Collecting the the day in your memory banks
Psalms sung by sparrows and freedom chants
Navigatin' odyssies next door
Comforter sessions on the spaceship floor
Loathing mediocrity whores
Embracing simplicity...and escaping the bored
This is the LIFE...
(©) 2010 by Jessica Freites
Tuesday, August 16, 2011
Hemp Q&A
**Disclaimer: Only those who partake in herbal appreciation will understand this, although it is to explain my specific motivations for smoking. Regardless, if you don't you're probably judging me anyway (cause that's what non-smokers do...or at least how all smokers feel about non-smokers)..it's ok though, soon enough I'll be too far away too care...
Why do you smile, laugh, cry, pretend, celebrate, rejoice, mourn...
Why do you drink, or eat pounds of lard when you're going through that break up from the pits of hell...or when you're celebrating...on any occasion?
Exactly see,
Naturally, I don't like being told that I can't
And it feels good
Because it's a great motivator to stay hydrated and healthy and drink plenty of water
It so casually fulfills my desires to be anti-social
The smoke patterns, especially if the light hits them at just the right angle, look pretty effin gnarly
Music tastes better
And food feels better
If I can light up with you...especially a clip, we just got through stage 1 of breaking down awkward social barriers
At times I want to live in dreams and other times I don't want to remember my dreams...
Why, why do you care so much about...nothing at all?
Other times I engage in self-loathing and it helps me forgive myself
Doing my makeup and rolling blunts turns into arts & crafts...and who doesn't like arts & crafts
I blame the spirits of suburban graveyards and the chaos of concrete jungles
Oh, I blame NY too.
You ever get this one..."What are you running away from?"
Why do you gaze ever so curiously at yourself only to realize you're not who or where you want to be?
It smells like...love.
And in its lack I have a tendency to forget to eat
No one ever committed a violent crime for being too stoned
It's a justifiable reason to laugh more
Bonding over a bowl is a far more intimate experience than bonding over a drink
My creative genius unwinds a bit once the smoke settles
It doesn't talk back
Sometimes I need an energy boost and sometimes I need to go to sleep
And it's way cheaper than a therapist
It's an aphrodisiac...obviously
Sometimes I like myself more that way
I'm probably more productive than a good chunk of the population on my third j
Dancing ...on every level
And after a while the incessant chattering, correction, bickering, of my internal monologue aka my super-conscious, conscious & sub-conscious aka my multiple personalities that I give other fancy titles to not sound like a lunatic, well, they, after a while, they start driving my main personality so mad that I'm not even completely sure which one was the main one to begin with. The weed in turn helps me help you to identify the main me...or at least the one I let you see.
Breathing makes more sense
I'll never feel understood...that's another reason
I'm fond of Mary more than I am most people
Because my insecurities don't ever seem to let me forget who they are...or their stare, point, and cackle.
It feels freakin amazing when you're stretching
I like feeling like I'm not...
Everyone enjoys a good ol' ritualistic oral fixation
So funny, cause I don't even like smoking that much, and I really don't NEED it.
I want it. And I like wanting it.
I don't mind forgetting certain things
You ever feel like everything would just be better in slow-motion?
Sex and showers and even sex in showers penetrate in a tantric kind of way
It's a better alternative than heroin, alcohol, pills, whippets, crack, meth...oh yeah, and cigarettes.
I'm 25, technically with "arthritis" and psychologically knowing that if I was in Cali I'd be good to go with a med card makes me feel as if I'm disenfranchising myself if I didn't
My moms is pretty cool with it
And also due to my moms...from a situational point of view
Family and those people that 'affect you'...it's cause of them too
My crazy is regulated and can be passed off as being quirky and/or 'high'
It makes me lose recollection of...and often remember you, you, and you
And as much as I think I know, I just really don't
Due to days like this
When you've answered the why's, then maybe you'll understand why I do so...and please do let me know. Cause despite our arrival here, I'm still not quite sure myself.
(c) - 2011 Jessica Freites
Why do you smile, laugh, cry, pretend, celebrate, rejoice, mourn...
Why do you drink, or eat pounds of lard when you're going through that break up from the pits of hell...or when you're celebrating...on any occasion?
Exactly see,
Naturally, I don't like being told that I can't
And it feels good
Because it's a great motivator to stay hydrated and healthy and drink plenty of water
It so casually fulfills my desires to be anti-social
The smoke patterns, especially if the light hits them at just the right angle, look pretty effin gnarly
Music tastes better
And food feels better
If I can light up with you...especially a clip, we just got through stage 1 of breaking down awkward social barriers
At times I want to live in dreams and other times I don't want to remember my dreams...
Why, why do you care so much about...nothing at all?
Other times I engage in self-loathing and it helps me forgive myself
Doing my makeup and rolling blunts turns into arts & crafts...and who doesn't like arts & crafts
I blame the spirits of suburban graveyards and the chaos of concrete jungles
Oh, I blame NY too.
You ever get this one..."What are you running away from?"
Why do you gaze ever so curiously at yourself only to realize you're not who or where you want to be?
It smells like...love.
And in its lack I have a tendency to forget to eat
No one ever committed a violent crime for being too stoned
It's a justifiable reason to laugh more
Bonding over a bowl is a far more intimate experience than bonding over a drink
My creative genius unwinds a bit once the smoke settles
It doesn't talk back
Sometimes I need an energy boost and sometimes I need to go to sleep
And it's way cheaper than a therapist
It's an aphrodisiac...obviously
Sometimes I like myself more that way
I'm probably more productive than a good chunk of the population on my third j
Dancing ...on every level
And after a while the incessant chattering, correction, bickering, of my internal monologue aka my super-conscious, conscious & sub-conscious aka my multiple personalities that I give other fancy titles to not sound like a lunatic, well, they, after a while, they start driving my main personality so mad that I'm not even completely sure which one was the main one to begin with. The weed in turn helps me help you to identify the main me...or at least the one I let you see.
Breathing makes more sense
I'll never feel understood...that's another reason
I'm fond of Mary more than I am most people
Because my insecurities don't ever seem to let me forget who they are...or their stare, point, and cackle.
It feels freakin amazing when you're stretching
I like feeling like I'm not...
Everyone enjoys a good ol' ritualistic oral fixation
So funny, cause I don't even like smoking that much, and I really don't NEED it.
I want it. And I like wanting it.
I don't mind forgetting certain things
You ever feel like everything would just be better in slow-motion?
Sex and showers and even sex in showers penetrate in a tantric kind of way
It's a better alternative than heroin, alcohol, pills, whippets, crack, meth...oh yeah, and cigarettes.
I'm 25, technically with "arthritis" and psychologically knowing that if I was in Cali I'd be good to go with a med card makes me feel as if I'm disenfranchising myself if I didn't
My moms is pretty cool with it
And also due to my moms...from a situational point of view
Family and those people that 'affect you'...it's cause of them too
My crazy is regulated and can be passed off as being quirky and/or 'high'
It makes me lose recollection of...and often remember you, you, and you
And as much as I think I know, I just really don't
Due to days like this
When you've answered the why's, then maybe you'll understand why I do so...and please do let me know. Cause despite our arrival here, I'm still not quite sure myself.
(c) - 2011 Jessica Freites
Sunday, May 15, 2011
The Marrying Type
is a mess
an inner eccentric mess
The love of my life will be a madman of sorts....i met him...too bad he's damn near charging forth the gateways of insanity.
Living for PASSION! is going to be the death of me...oh well, death is guaranteed regardless.
Sex on skyscraper rooftops...love in the crevices of valleys of darkness. is one of my various meanings of life...all 'meanings' vary depending upon the time of day and day of the week though, naturally.
Now. Generally speaking, the sentiment and the scent of him are moreso more missed than the actual specimen of him...that usually goes for all of you, too.
vulgar...and soft...pull my hair..and gently press your lips on my cheek.
Not the relationship type...but soulmates for specific occasions are in high standing.
cold, often unfeeling, way too entirely giving and a hopeless romantic that falls face first in l - o -...infatuation.
Expert dater...horrified by dating...a great girlfriend...and refuses to acknowledge the concept of marrying...
i like boys I shouldn't...and could care less about the men i should.
At some point...i'll probably hate almost everything about him...but at least he'll stand out in a crowd...
There's something about the madness of it all...that makes me feel perfectly at ease. Boredom...is insanity.
shy...and aggressive. know what i hate, and have no idea what i want.
At what point does any of it ever really make sense?...i guess when posed in different lights reflecting off different mirrors in different rooms...of my mind.
don't even know if i want to be in love...just want to think i am.
Around once a week i come to the conclusion that i'm bi-polar..suffering from depression every other month...and overwhelmed with joy and blessings every 2-4 days.
A good eye fuck will increase your chances of me actually wanting to speak to you.
for me, letting go is as easy as pi or pie...varies in degree.
He needs to relish in book stores...and most likely has a criminal record...that he's not ashamed of. Hopefully it's for a non-violent crime.
frivolously attracted to most...could care about less...and in turn, not particularly inclined to any.
The art of objectifying men...occurs in my world.
not a bad person though...
an inner eccentric mess
The love of my life will be a madman of sorts....i met him...too bad he's damn near charging forth the gateways of insanity.
Living for PASSION! is going to be the death of me...oh well, death is guaranteed regardless.
Sex on skyscraper rooftops...love in the crevices of valleys of darkness. is one of my various meanings of life...all 'meanings' vary depending upon the time of day and day of the week though, naturally.
Now. Generally speaking, the sentiment and the scent of him are moreso more missed than the actual specimen of him...that usually goes for all of you, too.
vulgar...and soft...pull my hair..and gently press your lips on my cheek.
Not the relationship type...but soulmates for specific occasions are in high standing.
cold, often unfeeling, way too entirely giving and a hopeless romantic that falls face first in l - o -...infatuation.
Expert dater...horrified by dating...a great girlfriend...and refuses to acknowledge the concept of marrying...
i like boys I shouldn't...and could care less about the men i should.
At some point...i'll probably hate almost everything about him...but at least he'll stand out in a crowd...
There's something about the madness of it all...that makes me feel perfectly at ease. Boredom...is insanity.
shy...and aggressive. know what i hate, and have no idea what i want.
At what point does any of it ever really make sense?...i guess when posed in different lights reflecting off different mirrors in different rooms...of my mind.
don't even know if i want to be in love...just want to think i am.
Around once a week i come to the conclusion that i'm bi-polar..suffering from depression every other month...and overwhelmed with joy and blessings every 2-4 days.
A good eye fuck will increase your chances of me actually wanting to speak to you.
for me, letting go is as easy as pi or pie...varies in degree.
He needs to relish in book stores...and most likely has a criminal record...that he's not ashamed of. Hopefully it's for a non-violent crime.
frivolously attracted to most...could care about less...and in turn, not particularly inclined to any.
The art of objectifying men...occurs in my world.
not a bad person though...
Sunday, January 2, 2011
Temporary Thoughts...
Too much to say...and not a word in sight...
I'm not even sure what to write...I just need to get THIS...
this all oppressing, mental bulldozer of bitter truths cloaked in spite
out. of. me.
See, matters of the heart are no matter at all...
until you're entrapped in one
until the avalanche breaks into bloodthirsty shards
promising the deepest of scars
pummeled by depth of the fall...and now we're buried in the trenches of the situation...
I mean, I'm serious...
at this point
the tear isn't worth the touch
I have no idea what the hell I'm saying, or what I'm doing here, I just know...it's far too much,
Too much nonsensical fuss, too much regret for the both of us,
for what???...
I guess I did it cause
I'm an idealist
I loved the idea of us
crashing tides of idea lusts
but nonetheless
it's
too much of 'this' one day, 'that' the next,
confusion of truths and personality contexts,
This is just far, far too complex
How can one expect in my current state of mental content to process, digest and spit back out words into the atmospheric vortex
in hopes of attempts at making the most subtle bit of...
sense
**deep breathes**
My sheets still smell of his scent...
I digress...
You CAN'T be melting into numbness...freezing by a hint of touch
...the rhythm of your vibrations warms the breath of life too much,
I wanted to lose myself in your tones, be your melody...
our song could sing to the strings of my touch
Layers of paint, still damp, still encrusted on the tattered brush
to shelter the moments sketched in the crevices of a home built out of rush...
The home I once lived in, a mosaic of hopes collisioned...
Painted projections of a blind fool's vision
Beams of clarity now blurred to a dim
Trust and passion turned illusions of lust and infatuation,
and now all of those things,
no longer within...
no longer intend...
to keep you any longer...
not even as a friend...
The energy you curse me with is of a cold violent wind...
and even an embrace freezes and pains the skin,
Chipping away, Peeling away, Shattering away, Shutting away...
all light of day...
turned icicle rays...
reflecting nothing more than memories in vain...
Diving headfirst down a desolate drain
Nothing more than a black hole dining on my whole,
a puncture wound found at every pressure point of the soul,
jagged holes bleeding stained letters which once had told
a truth that would hold
its index finger down for sometime on rewind, others fast forward, pause and play
generating enough mental foreplay
to keep a silly little girl trained to engage
in a marriage of false promises and smiles of dismay
I do try and leave...
but I can't because your shadow keeps haunting me...
dreams soaked in sedatives of memory...
Forgetting that forgetting will remedy
the damaged molecules of our chemistry
a force to enforce the strength of being this weak...
I know this feeling goes away,
I know its temporary...
but why does it feel so permanently engraved
across the left side of my heart...where our heartbeats intertwined into a braid
fabric woven rhythmically composin' all the minutes of the day...
Wandering into a shadow's trance
I light kerosene lamps
to find daddy issue plagued tramps
begging for self-esteem amps
to be amp-lified
Just so they can be heard by a heart on the outside
Just so they can silently cry
tears that scream only when hidden
Just so they can be seen for the woman within,
not solely recognized in a mask and robe of harlequin skin
But just know, despite
the fact that
I may not ever be 'the one'
the one you see as your wife
I will be the one
the one that solidifies
that you never are really quite right in attempts at loving again
in this life...
- © 2010 by Jessica Freites
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)