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I don't even know what to call this

I sit down to write, and bullshit comes from the tips of my fingers through the keys.  Whatever I start to talk about slowly winds its way onto a tangent rant about some OTHER bullshit I've been holding in.  I've heard about writer's block, and whether or not this is it I am unsure.  But, I do know it makes it difficult to do anything relatively creative.

Speaking of husband and I were looking at an app that tells you about the day you were born and a lot of in depth astrologically relevant personality descriptions.  It was dead-on about most of what it said about me.  I'm a Leo and every time I read about myself it says I'm a creative person.  I have never considered myself creative and when asking my husband if he thought I was I got one of those side eyes that lets you know the question is bordering on stupid.  He told me the things he found about me that he felt were very creative, and I did as I always do, try to smile and accept a compliment that I don't truly believe for myself.

Yeah, I keep a nice house.  I don't think that's creativity, it's more about wanting to live nicely and not allow my finances to make me uncomfortable when I'm at home.  Yeah, I might be stylish.  Well, most of the stuff I have was bought from a second-hand store.  I don't do well with jobs or money, so when I can find something that someone else no longer wants, I buy it.  I'm not ashamed, but I will admit that I don't go out drinking or dancing because my wardrobe is definitely not current or trendy, and I know I'd feel out of place if I were to venture out someplace. Yeah.... I write.  But, writing isn't creative.  I don't write poetry, I just write what comes to my head, or how I feel.  I've tried to write things that rhyme, but then they sound lame to me, too put together to fit the rhythm.  I know writing as a tool, or a necessity.  I haven't used it as something to be a vehicle for any form of creativity.

I don't often daydream about far away lands or of some beach-lined paradise in the tropics.  I might allow myself to think about what I'd do if I were able to have enough money to buy my husband a nice birthday or Christmas gift one year...or what I'd do if I were able to...shit, do anything on my own really. That's the extent of my creative juices right there, imagining my own freedom.  But, instead, all I can really admit that I use my creative ability for is drowning out the voices in my head that tell me to do things, or the voices of other people who I know are desperately wanting to be of some help, but have no clue that they are completely unequipped to fix any problem I have.  I think of ways to do things to hurt people, then I drug myself into forgetting about that.  I think of ways to hurt myself, to relieve myself of the pain of feeling like how I hurt from feeling unheard and ignored. But, I can't act on that. I know I could, but people tell me I can't.

Even now, I'm having trouble understanding what I'm writing for.  I'm pissed, but relieved at the same time.  This year-long battle has finally come to an end. I feel like I've been treated like shit without ever having an opportunity to say WHY things happened the way they did, but I guess that's just how the SYSTEM works.  I hate even using that type of language, because it makes me feel like a conspiracy theorist.  And I'm not. I just know that the fuck I see. I know what's fair and unfair.  I know what's just and unjust.  And I know what I'm being played a fucking fool and that's how I feel about America and the society I live in is doing me right now.

Every time I sit down to write it ends up reading like some conspiracy theorist attack on the establishment and that's not who I am at all. Or at least that's not how I started out. I love the idea of America, and whenever we get around to telling the truth, I think we will find that many other people around the world will fall in love with us as well.  But growing up as a Black man in a country built on the backs of people who look like me, being lied to in elementary about how history unfolded, then later as an adult having to pay thousands of dollars in tuition to find out that everything I thought I knew was really only a string of well placed lies and myths really fucks with you.  To carry the burdens of people before you who could only do what they were ALLOWED to do because of their color, and being expected to "just let it go" by other people who haven't had the experience of doing things for the first time with no advice or help from people who've done it before.

I don't know... maybe I'm just a spoiled brat, or a cry-baby.  Maybe I'm indeed suffering from some mental or emotional disorder and need medication. Or maybe, I'm perfectly sane and the world I live in is simply sick.  There are days where my preference for this question switch back and forth, because I don't know if I could handle the severity of either extreme.  Maybe there's some wonderful middle ground that I've yet to consider, but however things work out I just want to not make too much more of a mess of my life than I already have.


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Can you believe that I still dream of getting high
Even after being here for 85 days
In my sleep I buy a dime, and roll up a blunt
And smoke and try to wake up still John Blazed
But it isn't just weed that my mind craves anymore
It's the process and the act of getting high
Because it gives me the chance, to leave reality behind
And just float, like a cloud up into the night sky
I'm a drug addict, and it's not easy to admit
But being real is my best shot at escaping death
I've smoked tons of weed, snorted likes of coke
But I fucked up when I shot up with meth
We've all heard this saying, at some point in our lives
"What's good to you ain't always good for you"
Well that shit felt too great, and I knew it was no good
Because it took days before my body recovered
I'm not proud of that shit, but I live in my truth
And maybe I can help someone else avoid it
Because depression is a lie, and when you think you've lost your mind
All that'…