After long-lasting thoughts

I can put many things into complete sentences and hope and try to see that things become nothing more but an open book, my life has been completely turned into a boring confession of thrills with little tests and depression. But I’m back, the song of the week begins now in 2020. There I have nothing but, I have thoughts of boredom loneliness depression and just kind of long ending everything that made me think I was intelligent became was so irrelevant to people but, I have so much to say, for myself “not really” .I’m tired of course of waiting. I thought I thought I deserved employment, and I thought deserved happier parents and less abusive friends, less creepy coworkers and a more ecstatic sex life and morale is really low.

 

When We share our worth

We are constantly searching  for a star, to wish upon or some sort of genie to counsel our wish and whim. My meaning for saintly living , too well wishes, their are no lamps to rub, I think My praying hands fell off and my faith has turned into a churning valve of hot raging molecules of fear and hatred. I’m afraid of failure, its my one weakness.

I only wish I knew what went wrong in kindergarten, I thought I was too afraid to give birth once and now I think I may still be wanting to be born again to. Experience it, “With who might I add”. I’m not perfect,  always slim lacking confidence. I knew this sense I learned the idea of being conceived I almost why do I exist? I thought I thought I was so wonderful once I stayed in school kept relying on being tired in class, I hated the way I walked, then way I talked, the way the wind blew and nothing said, my name anymore. My life revolves around more than goals my life revolves around facing my fears, and forgetting a lot of hopes and memories, I remember feeling less fertile and first grade and playing house as the grandmother during recess because i felt the least prettiest as the others girls in grade school.

Life is conceived by chance, and my existence is not a mistake ,no one could ever be a mistake, although I’ve made many mistakes taken many painful licks in the backside.I still think my bones my rare and unwanted, my blood is not sick but I’m for some still lack excitement for my existence. I still wanted to be happy of course, but I wanted happiness from freedom, freedom of press,

 

Bridal Markets

This was something am I interested in learning about , I think Marriage is more or like an emotional connection in some cultures.in all honestly I would be afraid to step in these women’s shoes, I just going to post different videos that I think are important to me.  -Lakira sharice Mitchum

The Morbid Butterfly

fictional narrative

Rough draft

Horror story

By ,Lakira Mitchum

The repeated beating from the fear I feel inside when I think of the scratches and bruises I have from the mysterious man in the dark, he squeezes me at night and leaves his blood on the floor. I’m afraid of him of course but, what should I tell my parents when I see them tonight for dinner, “Oh, God Help me!” He peeks, through the window while my body is seeping wet and each night is a new fight. The Necrotic thick breathing I hear coming from the dark corner of room makes my skin unravel with a slow suicidal thought in my mind, I pace my self to approach the man in my room.Sickening noxious catastrophic he banged on my door with heavy heaping.

 

 

Sanity.

 

Dwindling away like time and so does my feelings they dissolve like salt that leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. Like mush underneath my feet.The  weight over my head it shoves me around like a broken crown all of my love kisses me goodbye and worthless shoves itself towards me again, like a large penis , degrading my very being and cutting me with ties I can not resolve, how do I seek the the man that cut away my happiness,My heart is bleeding it’s wicked sins, and everything seems so dark and looming with the eyes of the devil staring me, red as the horns of Satan, I sat alone and  cried because I have nightmares, voices, screaming in my head telling me I’m worthless, my voices screeching in hell without my body, with a soul, without itself soaking in my own blood.

They call that sanity, the sensitive parts of  me that holds on tightly to my soul until I feel a sickening twist of anxiety, I was falling apart in the place of sadness, I collect dust on God’s shelf with a list of petty accusations and frustrations, I know I was born as an enfeebled yet hated soul, a pathetic lot to man.I swallowed the pill to forget how the devil laughs at me, how God mashed me into a mixed creature, A disgusted anachronistic fool, looking for love, used up and washed apart…When No one cares about your decisions, you are broken. Keep my bloody heart Oh God, Keep, my bloody heart…

Sanity,

King of hell, shrine of darkness tore me apart, and kicked me in my room while I cried and asked  who am I?

 

Voices

Journal entry

poetry

Lakira Mitchum

My voice seems to screech something its almost terrifying how much I have been silenced,I’m afraid of what the echo sounds like when I cry, what will they say? when my voice breaks and when I’m destroyed against my own free will bound to the giggles and wits told by my enemies twisting me and harvesting my weakest for their own digestion.

Little worthless little girl the man is afraid to sin in your arms, and swing away with you.Why would anyone not see your vocal chords are bleeding,singing to a God that bent you with tests and fears, cold and cult like religions praises sung to a group that settled on knowing you look broken. “Your voice is gone little fallen angel so find who you are without it”. speak up shout out and be a light. Pretty faces and babbling boys with their loud voices roaring at me telling me I’m pretty oh, dear God I’m a fallen saint and broken jew, beauty is dangerous, smile are poison and women and tainted by the environment that kills them.

maus 3