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Life never did come with a guarantee

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Community Regarding Frontal or Temporal Lobe Brain Injury [20 Dec 2010|12:11am]

Hello all,

There wasn't a community geared toward being mutually-supportive of those affected by frontal or temporal lobe brain injury, so I recently created one.

Here is a synopsis of the community:
WHO is this community for? People affected by frontal or temporal lobe traumatic brain injury (tbi) in one or more of the following ways: has a frontal or temporal tbi, interact with someone who has that, relevant medical professionals, students, and those simply interested in making a positive difference in the lives of those affected by that.
WHAT are this community's goals? Bringing individuals together to communicate with each other, discuss relevant topics, and share resources, support, and inspiration.

The community is located at http://community.livejournal.com/front_tmprl_tbi . I look forward to seeing you there. If you have any questions, please feel free to drop me a note.

Kind regards,
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[25 Jan 2010|12:36am]

You were all belig the last time I saw you
A receding hairline and a beer-chipped tooth
I knew you were the one for me
And my recurring lack of dignity

We spent that night under dirty covers
An illicit affair between fictional lovers
A masochistic mentality
Enlaced with necessary frivolity
I caved in to your lips

Now I wonder where you’ve gone
when you were just a fleeting ghost
and I was just a willing pawn
wanting for this disaster to happen the most

Can I have one more swig
One more cig-a-rette
My lips can’t take this
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creative writers! [21 May 2009|11:01am]
Hey! My name is Alyssa, and I’m publishing a book of a compilation of creaitive writing by teenagers through Lulu.com, by June 2010, for my graduation project.

I want your poetry and short stories published in it!

It’s very simple: you email your name (or anonymous, if preferred), age, and piece of writing to teenage.creativity@gmail.com. Send it by August 20, 2009. And be sure to let me know the topic.

Here they are:







Happiness/ Appreciation


No kids!

No adults!

Just YOU! (Ages 13-21)Let’s, together, show the world our struggles, triumphs, talent, and beauty.

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Drunken Waves [02 May 2009|04:31pm]

You're a drunk.
and you never come home.
where the hell'd you think you'd end up?

not satisfied, that's for sure.
not where you should be, that's for sure.
oh what'd you really think would happen

you're a wreck.
you're a drunk.
should've known the waves would come and bring you down.
lost at sea.
no way home.
and that undertow just won't give up.

what're you gonna do now
that you're alone.
you got no one left to take you home.

no one to hold.
and you're broke.
you think how'd it ever get this bad.

not satisfied, that's for sure.
not where you should be, thats for sure
oh how'd you really think this would go?

you're a wreck
you're a drunk
should've known the waves would come and bring you down
lost at sea
no way home
and that undertow just won't let up.

so go ahead
have another drink
you know it's gonna rinse the pain
but don't you expect me to stay
cause i just can't watch you fade away

well, you're a wreck
yeah, you're a drunk
you should've known those waves would come and bring you down.
now you're lost at sea
no way home
and this undertow just won't give up.

well, you're a drunk
and you never come home
so where the hell'd you think you'd end up
6 comments|post comment

[18 Jan 2009|12:47am]


Keep Your Ear To The Stethoscope

You're disaster wrapped in reason;
a thick, cotton mess of lackluster love.
A sugar rush. Ephemeral. Nonsensical.
And you want to harvest this thing,
this feeling? These violated strands of
frightened surrender? This darkly heroic
suicidal tic? Let's just call it a lapse;
let's just call it a fuck. People do it all the time.
They ignore the twitching, beating, violent thing
that claims it owns us.

If one of us is alone, one of us is alone
1 comment|post comment

Poemforinsomniacs. [19 Dec 2008|01:46pm]

Here I lay
with darkness blinding my
eyes and I can't think
without it.
Spouting one liners
in my mind
that mean nothing--
deceiving philosophies
that are just empty air,
just like the words
coming from your mouth.

the words jump off
my skin in hopes
to reach yours.

1 comment|post comment

Tea Leaves. [18 Dec 2008|04:15pm]

I see my life in these tea leaves--
they're scattered and
god, i hope they lie.
But I keep drinking, drinking
and I keep shaking.
I keep shaking.
And the rain is falling down
right on my face,
right on these cheeks
but I won't wipe it off.
I don't wanna wipe it off--
it's so warm on these cheeks
and it's undeniably cold here.
I can't stop shaking.
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[23 Oct 2008|03:18am]

some days... things go so wrong... it's hilarious

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[11 Oct 2008|01:28pm]

arms locked out in front of me
stop me from crashing into you.
legs on overdrive under me
run me right into the ground
and this gravitational pull
is always reeling me back to you. 

hand on the rewind button
don't let go until you get back to the start
lips suctioned on the bottle of beer
don't stop drinking until you get back to the start.
and this swirling field of fears
is drenching me in shades of blue

back twisted into a thousand braids
ache when i breathe in too deep
head tangled into a hundred knots
ache when i breathe out too long
i built this rollercoaster from the beginning
creaking and swaying ever since
and this ride thats cost me so much
is turning my stomach into a hurricane

i cover up the bitemarks you left me.
but i still feel all the bruises you smeared on my skin.
1 comment|post comment

Purple and Pink [08 Sep 2008|02:32am]

He had been in trouble a few times but when I met him he was cleaning himself up. He swore he would never go back to jail and I told him that if he ever did I would be gone. To his honor he never did go back. Sometimes I wish he had, maybe then I would still have my sanity.

Twenty-three years. I had been with him (on and off) for twenty-three years. His drinking wasn't a problem for the first fifteen, and it took another three for me to realize how bad it really was. I remember with perfect clarity the night it all came crashing down. It's funny, I can no longer remember the horrible names he called me or which glasses he broke against the wall, but this night will forever be ingrained into my memory as the beginning of the end. Or perhaps a more accurate analogy would be the bullet that puts a road-rashed deer out of his misery.

It was four-thirty on a Tuesday morning when he finally came home from the bar. His eyes were bloodshot and his breath wreaked of vodka. He saw me sitting at the kitchen table. I expected him to try and stumble through some drunken excuse but instead he stumbled into the kitchen and tried to drunkenly wrap his arms around me. I pushed him away and glared at him. Usually he quailed under that look but tonight he was too wasted to take notice. I pushed him away again and stood up.

"Baby," I started.

"Oh, baby, you look so sexy tonight..."

"No," I said, yet again pushing his hands off of me. "No way. I told you --"

"I'm sorry. Babe--Baby. Look at me. Look at me." I sighed and looked up at his eyes. He was staring blearily at my left cheek. "I love you, baby. You know that."

"Yes, I know, but --"

"No buts. I love you. You love me. That's all that matters." He leaned in to kiss me. I leaned back.

"It's not all that matters --"

"Kiss me when I'm trying to kiss you, please," he said quietly. It was always something he hated. I just shook my head.

"It's useless trying to talk to you when you're like this. Go to bed."

I've never seen him look so angry. He stared at me for a few seconds, then his hand reached out quick, so quick, much faster than I thought his drunken self was capable of, and grabbed the hair at the back of my head. He pulled me in hard and forced my lips to his. I struggled away. He slapped me. I gaped at him, open-mouthed. He grabbed my hair with both hands and yanked me back to him.

I was scared and in shock. For a second I considered just giving in for fear of being hurt worse. As soon as the thought came into my head it filled me with such disgust towards him and myself. It fueled me with anger and I began to hit and punch him wherever my hands could reach. He was stronger and bigger than me, and had enough alcohol in him that my attacks didn't even phase him. I drew my knee up fast and hard and finally he went down. I refused to feel any pity as he rolled, wheezing on the ground. I grabbed my wallet, phone, and car keys off the kitchen table and walked out. A loud ringing in my ears almost blocked out the, "Baby, wait, baby, please..."

I bought a pack of cigarettes from an all-night gas station and parked my car on a side street. After letting three burn down almost untouched I gave up and let myself cry. I knew now that I had to leave him. I knew I couldn't let myself go back to the alcoholic monster he'd become and that knowledge hurt worse than my cheek where he hit it or my hair where he'd yanked it. My phone rang. It was him, of course. I didn't answer. It rang and rang and rang. After the fourth or fifth time he left a voicemail. Curiosity and a small amount of lingering respect for our eighteen year history made me to listen to it.

It was a long, rambling, drunken message with a lot of heavy breathing, as though he was trying not to cry. The only time I ever saw him cry was when his father passed away.

"I love you so much," the message began. "You're the only one who's ever always been there for me." It went on for a few minutes but I couldn't understand much beyond the occasional word. Near the end he seemed to get himself together, and it ended: "And now you're gone, too, and it's all my fault and I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. You'll never hear from me again. I promise I'm done hurting you. I'm done with all of it.

"I love you, baby. When you remember me, remember us, please remember the good times. I want you to be happy when you think of me. I want... I want you to be happy.


I raced back to the house. No matter how angry I was, no matter if I wasn't going back to him anyway, I couldn't let him kill himself. Though I thought it was just an attempt to get me to come back, I still couldn't take that chance. I drove all the way across town in less than five minutes and walked in the front door to find him loading his shotgun. Somehow I managed to talk the gun from his hands and put him in bed. I stayed up all night to make sure he didn't try anything else. The following morning I told him that I was leaving, and that I was taking his shotgun. He wasn't happy, but he wasn't drunk enough to force it from me. I told him he needed to quit his drinking. I told him he needed to get help. I told him to call me on his ninety days and we'll talk. He didn't say anything, just nodded his head to everything I said. I left.

Later, he got angry. Every few days he called me and told me to bring his gun back. He said he would call the police. I knew he was bluffing, he knew I knew he was bluffing. He still hated pigs from his younger days. I told him over and over again that I wouldn't give it back until he promised me he wouldn't use it on himself. For weeks and weeks he wouldn't do it. His friends and family members called me, yelled at me to give it back. They didn't know how bad he was, they didn't want to know. He doesn't have a drinking problem, they told me, as if they would know better than I would.

A few months went by where I didn't hear from him. Then he called and asked if he could stop by. I said no. I said I wanted nothing to do with him until he made the promise. He did. He promised me. And he always kept the promises he made to me. I took the gun over to his house. He begged me to stay. Begged me to come back. I told him I would come back when I had proof that he was getting help. Because after it all I still loved him. I still hoped he could get through it and that we could be happy again.

Four years later he was still drinking. I couldn't bring myself to leave him completely. I was the only good thing in his life and I knew it. So I would still go over to his place now and again when he needed me. I still checked up on him and we still talked on the phone and went out to dinner every couple of months. Every time he would ask me to stay, and every time I broke my heart telling him I wouldn't. He half-heartedly went to a few AA meetings, but that didn't last long. One night he called. I could tell by his voice he was drunk again. He asked me to come over. To come over and stay over. I wouldn't. I was angry that he quit going to AA. I was angry that he would even call me so trashed and ask me to come over when he knew how strongly I felt. He begged me, pleaded. I wouldn't budge. Then he just gave up.

"Alright. I didn't really expect you to. I understand. I wouldn't come see me, either."

I was so angry. I knew he was just trying to guilt me again. Well, this time I wouldn't give in. I turned off my phone and tried to turn off my mind.

That night he propped up his feet with my favorite blanket, the purple one with the white unicorn, and blew his promise all over the wall.

I will never understand why he did it. I will never understand why he would rather die than be with me. I know that's a twisted way to look at it, but I told him if he would put down the bottle we could pick up where we left off, but he didn't.

I will never be rid of this guilt. I will never be rid of the nagging belief that if I had gone over that night he would be alive today. I know I can't be held responsible for his actions but fucking hell, if I had gone, if I had been there for him like he needed me to be, like no one else ever was for him, he might have pulled through.

I will never stop hating him for breaking his promise. The last twenty-three years he had kept every promise he had ever made me, big and small. He never went back to jail, he got me that puppy for my 27th birthday, he never cheated or had any sort of affair. Why did this one, this last one, this most important one have to be the one shattered like my glasses, like his skull, like my heart?
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I'm not sure if maybe my creativity creates my insanity or my insanity causes my creativity. [21 Aug 2008|11:53am]

I'm not sure if maybe my creativity creates my insanity or my insanity causes my creativity.
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Invitation to submit to new variety webzine [21 Aug 2008|03:42am]

Hi everyone, I invite all the artists in this community, and anyone else you may know, to submit artwork or writing to our new literary/artistic/cultural/nature and travel writing/scientific webzine Synchronized Chaos!

Information on the zine and how to submit, from the Facebook group http://www.facebook.com/group.php?gid=20763137372&ref=mf :

This is all of our new brainchild, an art/cultural/literary/scientific/social commentary/essay webzine tentatively called "Synchronized Chaos" (referring to some kind of not-obviously-apparent logic that emerges spontaneously from randomnity, basically a fun way to have a theme without having a theme.)

Sort of a way to help the aspiring artists we constantly meet to get their names out there and spotlight some excellent work which should have an audience but the artists don't want to go through the publication process. And to give people committed to worthwhile causes a way to speak out or to use their personal experiences to educate others.

Everyone's invited to submit (and everything should be accepted, unless it's obscene or hateful). If you are interested please send a submission via email anytime this summer. We're working towards setting up a regular editing board and designating people to handle certain kinds of submissions, but for now you may use my email, cedeptula@sbcglobal.net

We're online in a rough draft form (all the artwork and writing is posted by our promised deadline but the Word Press blog still needs customization, quotes, links, and pictures to make the site more navigable) at http://www.synchchaos.com and invite you to check it out! Think of it as a building in progress, with the scaffolding still attached but with some interesting posted architectural plans.

We are not a paying market as of yet but hope to become one as we grow and sell advertising and/or host contests. The magazine's online contents will remain free to provide artists and writers with the greatest level of exposure possible.

So far we have received a good variety of submissions, and look forward to more! We're also chaos_zine on LJ and would be a publishing credit for any visual artist or writer to put on his/her bio or proposal or resume.

You may either pitch or send a completed product (attachments OK but prefer writing or thumbnails or JPEG images pasted in the body of the email.) Please put "Synchronized Chaos Submission" in the subject line and please feel free to include an artist statement or bio if you would like.

Also - our magazine is as much about building community and relationships with artists as it is about publication. We'd be happy to see artists and writers post and chat with each other in chaos_zine or on the Facebook page and would be glad to comment/critique or dialogue with you about your work if you would like.
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[20 Aug 2008|07:59pm]

 "summer blur"

summer streets flash
like an old movie projector
across my faded mind


too fast to follow
too blurred to separate
reality from dreams
love from pure fear
sunrise from sunset
lies from unwanted truth

indeed too jumbled together
to ever know the difference
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[20 Aug 2008|07:58pm]


her eyes are someone's friend
her smile is someone's lover
but her mind is your companion

she moves like a dancing dream
a carnival in front of me
whimsical and free

she's moonlight
soft and blue
she's blurred around the edges
and she's caught in a colorful daydream

she'll deceive you with a smirk
but go out on a rotting limb
to make you feel real.

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[20 Aug 2008|07:58pm]

who will be the savior to become the maid
who will ever be the arms to sway in the skies
and rain down in the streets
who will be the one to steal

frozen on a pedestal with a spear and a dream
and one thousand yellow daisies
romantic and magical and over the top

plundering like the vikings
victorious like the europeans

he comes in to take her
and he rapes and steals and lovers her
all the same

just like Zeus would if he knew of the zen heaven
and Slyvia Plath would if she never owned an oven

he is there inside her
and he leaves a lie behind
in a cloud of fractured truth
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I See it in Your Eyes [11 Aug 2008|05:59pm]
[ mood | crappy ]

"you got wires, goin in... you got wires, comin out of your skin. there's dry blood on your wrist; your dry blood on my fingertip..."

The incessant beeping of monitors, and the tangling of intravenous lines was something I thought I would only spy after we were eighty-years-old. I wanted to see a wrinkled-face man staring back at me... Not someone not even thirty, not someone who wasn't even the father of our unborn children, not someone who had not shared countless, wonderful memories with me.

I love the fact that you're still breathing air, but the fact that no one can point either of us in a direction to smile about bothers me. I haven't returned to work yet, because I'm terrified that I'll come home and things will only be getting worse.

We haven't been married a year, and already on repeat in my mind is doing everything to keep you living just a month longer. I know the medical bills are only piling up, and I know I'm only being a bitch about the money situation (our wonderful debt)... But I dare not speak about any of this to you because I only want you to be strong... I only want you to have the motivation to conquer what little of this ordeal you can, based on the odds.

Damn the day that another social worker gives me the paperwork to sign as a power of attorney.
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[11 Aug 2008|01:20am]

Where is my release? Where are the words that always pour so effortlessly from my fingertips through the keyboard and onto my screen? The raw emotion and pain and suffering that I could so easily drain away with a pen? Where is the ink shining on the page, a mirror for the tears shining on my cheeks? I cannot articulate myself. Not even with my third person mask on can I let slip a paragraph, a line, a sentence to calm my screaming heart. Where has my eloquence gone? The sinews of my syntax have snapped and slipped away. I am empty of all creativity; I couldn't conjure a plot device to save my life. Why am I suddenly unable to wrap myself up in my language? To weave an intricate shield of words to protect my fragile mind? There is nothing inside me and it's not the good kind of empty. It's not the satiated emptiness that comes from unleashing my soul upon the page. It's the kind that the needle points to in my car when I have somewhere to be. It's the kind that urges me silently to drive my fist into the wall. There is nothing outside me, no piece to read, no poem or song or story to show for the feelings that consume me. There is nothing inside, there is nothing outside, I am empty and exposed.

My sentence structure is repeating
to the beat my heart is beating
and instead of this retreating
I wish I could be completing
some magic work of fiction
but I seem to have no diction,
my writing's full of friction.
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a story [09 Aug 2008|09:01pm]

i never had any other friendship that ended so bitterly

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[01 Jul 2008|06:29pm]

i sold my life on the internet
the man who bought it 
didn't realize
how much i was worth

the house i lived in
echoes now and holds a chill
everything i called my own
seems bigger now it's not mine

he paid for my life
in dirtied, worn cash
he'd been saving up
for something this big

i'm looking for a new life now
maybe i'll just buy
someone else's world

i went on TV to find a soulmate
all i found were plastic people
with paper mache hearts 
and wax lips

they set me up with an actor
we went on a date
to my favorite italian place

but the conversation was scripted
and the laughter was pre-recorded
the cameras added 50lbs
and followed us all night

i should've known
souldmates don't exist 
in sitcoms and gameshows
who knows anymore
if they're even real at all.
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swallow us both [01 Jul 2008|12:13am]

this jealous haze of june
swallows us both
me against him in this parking lot of whores
with the lazy dew in the air
we stumble and struggle to breathe
but we never say the words
we both know are there. 

cold beers turn to warm puddles
that swallow us both
me against this chevy in this driveway of cracked dreams
with the romantic hum of a guitar
we belong anywhere but here and now
but we're still combing through
for any sort of escape

and before i can latch on to an exit door
he looks at me to say
     not all my songs are sad
     only the ones i sing about you
and suddenly i've melted 
down to the puddle 
of warm beer in that parking lot
where it all sparked off.  
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