i am not poster perfection

dear society,
thank you for covering your magazines
your posters
your billboards
with curvy women
with women of color
whether that color resembles melted caramel dripping down someone’s lips
or a shade of black that is bolder than any man
whether that color is filled with a yellow hue as bright as the sun,
i do thank you.
but society,
you are now starting to constrain on these curvy or colored women
i hear you saying that
“hey if you wanna be curvy you gotta have em like the kardashians”
and a little girl told me that if i wanted be beautiful with my color, my body must be of one, single glowing tone
the slightest bit discoloration on my skin is not allowed
i cant have blemishes
or scars
or stretch makes
or body
i hear you say that you want a women with color or curves but,
she must qualify.
so even though black and brown and yellow and all the other shades that are slabbed up upon your magazines, a little girl like me could never fit your unrealistic possibilities.
so dear society,
even though you tell me…

combining these thoughts, writing on paper

since when was has being realistic and aware of possibilities become the definition of dramatic?  -dkaur 
this constant memory lane is about to kill me -dkaur
I keep breathing for you you fell in the water  and you know how to swim  but you didn’t swim  and i don’t know if i want to keep breathing for you  -dkaur

does this reek of desperation too?

i very well know that if i let you back in my life it wouldn’t be worth it. it would we worse. it would reek of desperation.  desperation like a drowning infant  it can’t save it’s self it’s just an image of misery and  everyone’s made it clear that having you back in my life wouldn’t be worth it  you left me and took pieces with you  they remind me how you left me and that i don’t deserve that  but  i just can’t help thinking of forgiving you for it all starting over  -dkaur

the little stories with big words

it’s worse than drowning. the way you made me feel.. it’s worse that drowning  because when you're drowning you can save yourself
or someone can pull you out  but this it’s more like someone’s rubbed sandpaper against my wind pipes  and i’m trying to save myself but it isn’t working  because it’s burning, and i can’t grasp a breath 

what am i doing?

Honestly, I wanted to write an astonishing post, but I have not felt inspired in months. I am slaving away to high school, and I started this blog in 2015 when everything was downhill, and I miss writing. I have archived all my old posts, well most of them but if I edit them, I might put them back up. So you can see my growth and progress over three years! Anyways, I wrote some thoughts down today, and I thought I might as well write an excellent long post but I can't. So here are all the feelings I got down, and I hope they make sense and inspire you somewhat. Enjoy?  Someone recently gave me a reality check that honestly darsh, you aren’t all that confident, and you know what guys? Yea no I’m not always confident, and as a girl it’s hard but as a teen in the 21st century living with the mess around us. MESS WE CAN FIX BECAUSE THIS LAND IS OUR FUTURE HOME, not the president’s or the members of Congress sitting up there, not their future but it’s ours) it is hard to be confident …

Did I scatter your fantasy?

After seven months of us not talking and after 11 months you popped up on my phone again. But this was my new one. It was a fresh start. My new inception.
I've had a new beginning.
I’m a new me. You don’t know this new me; I put my pieces back together differently.
I’ve changed and matured and learned and developed. We don’t talk; we haven’t in so long. So why now? Why are you questioning me, popping up on my phone asking me “what the f***” what? Where do you come off? Why? How? What?
I hate it. So much. You. The situation. Why it happened. And everything. Just the story. And then you question me about your secret, your fantasy. Asked if I had told anyone. No, I did not. Why would I?
I don’t know why you’re friends think that I don’t know, I don’t know who you are. It is your secret, and if you want to go out with it, that’s all up to you.
I don't know; I don’t care. So that is you, all you buddy. If people know about it, that isn’t on me, it’s you, all of it. So I’m sorry th…

five minutes

10:58 am - He sat in the middle of chemistry and sat down, with chemicals in one hand and a test tube in the other. He didn’t know left from right. Yes, the world was still spinning, but for him, i­t­­ had all stopped. The dirty blonde haired sophomore with green hazel eyes just sat there and thought back to seventh grade. That was when he had met his black rose. Beautiful on the outside, as if there was like no other but with a touch, just a soft touch, it’d kill you. Beautiful but deadly. You’ve heard that saying right? Well, that’s when he had met her, the black rose, in seventh grade, first period Spanish right in front. Ironically her name was Rose Sarantino. He thought of everything, that entire relationship or friendship that lasted approximately two and a half years. All that time wasted and as he was in the middle of thinking the bell rings. He walks out of chem and runs into her. Hands shaking, short of breath and all that pain and terror magnifies twelve times, and he walk…