I was writing this book then i gave up on it because i hate everything i write: This is that Book


The snowflakes seemed to serenade the skyline’s figure as the descended onto the ground where they created a cocoon of bitter fluff. I find calm in these winter storm where the snow is thrown to and fro with only one objective in mind. To conceal all of our lies: once the snow is gone and the spring has crept up to our noses and barraged our nostrils with pollen. We are offered a new start, a new wasteland. I’d like to think that being born in January was meant to happen. That I’d be evacuated from my mother lovely womb into a world of frozen footsteps at the right time: right when the entire world has to endure its longest nights, and frigid days. Before I became this stoic man obsessed with death and of kind demeanor I was broken and beaten down by the jaw shattering blows that life threw at my youthful, and naïve chin. I still arose from being bloodied and learned the inner workings of my mind and finally grasped the things that should matter to a human being. I’ve always felt the need the need to share my life, and what I’ve endured with the world, in hopes to spark some sense of emotion or something that lit a fire under the tender asses of children who don’t appreciate the spoon that has been placed upon their ungrateful tongues. These are my memoirs, my sorrow, my lessons; these are my pieces of a kid. These are the words that are stolen from my heart and liberate onto paper.

The earliest memories I have are of me being in elementary school and the infamous era of cooties and idiotic diseases that were only visible to our pseudo infant eyes. I was in love with my bus driver, this girl in my kindergarten class, and this girl at after care. I hardly remember the bus driver’s name or the girl at aftercare. But I remember vividly her, the girl who first broke my tiny heart.

Brianna Cooke.

Brianna was a petite girl with glistening cocoa butter scented hair and a complexion of caramel that had been caressed by a sweet spoon. All of this was often noticed by all the other boys in my school that all had her eyes on her as I did. I’d force teardrops down my chubby cheek to create a friendship with her. I was so petty and indecent to her. I begged for her hand in friendship because the concept of being in a relationship at six years old was ever so foreign to us.

As I stared at the linoleum floor of the classroom I tried to look at her blurred reflection in the ground so I wouldn’t be caught with wandering eyes and looked at with disgust. When recess came around I finally had my chance to make memories with her in the sand and woodchip covered playground, or write her an immature sonnet with her favorite colored chalk on the blacktop where all the kids feet stomped and knees scrapped and teeth were grit. I wanted to make something beautiful for her on place where beauty was ignored.

Brianna never noticed my hopeless romanticism. She was too busy falling over this one kid at naptime. He was one of the cool kids, the typical cliché cool kid: fast-talking, good-looking. He always slept in the beanbag chair that the teacher kept in the corner instead of using his own blanket. One particular day Brianna was next to him. Her body juxtaposed next to his my eyes didn’t blink I was enticed by their affair during naptime. I was trapped in that moment. I think this was the moment that I realized that maybe she wasn’t all that great that maybe I should give up on her. That boy, that tool, that macho would-be big kid on campus he kissed her. Their lips intertwined and in that moment I felt a piece of me getting sucked down a garbage disposal and shredded apart. He made the only move that I was completely embarrassed to do. He felt the warmth of her lips and how soft her skin felt. I only knew of that pleasure in my head. My heart was broken for the first time. As the ending of naptime came closer and closer, I tried to plot my way into Brianna’s heart. Since I had studied the companions she had made throughout the day, I decided to use them to forcibly persuade her to be my friend. Maybe I could take it from there. As we were putting our blankets and pillow in the cubbies that smelt of paste and melted crayons: I approached one of Brianna’s close friends: Breanne Robinson, she was a taller girl with braided hair and plump lips. I tapped her shoulder lightly with my fingertips to get her attention. She turned to me, as she did one of her braids whipped around and planted right between my eyes. I let out a tremendous yell of anguish, as she tried to counsel me she asked, “I’m sorry Derwin, what’s up?”, whilst lifting her braid from my face,” I was just wondering, could you make Brianna be my friend? She hasn’t been talking to me and I want to be her friend.” I pleaded. My beggar’s way was a success by the next day at recess Brianna was my friend. I knew it was all empty. We were kids how was I supposed to know any better? How was I supposed to know that forcing the friendship of another would just be hollow and nothing true, I would learn these things later in life.

Too young to comprehend what these emotions were.  I didn’t understand that there would be darker times, I didn’t understand that even though my heart felt as if stones were weighing it down: I could endure.


I yearned for your presence. You were the massive planet that revolved around mine. You gave my eyes light and my heart warmth. I want to write to you, I want to write you sweet love letters and confess to you of my sins right now as a man.

As a child, I couldn’t wait to get home from school to rush into your arms and rest my sore body onto the couch beside and watch a few hours of PBS with you. Those experiences meant the entire galaxy to me. Words filled my universe with strong burning dwarf stars that never seemed to dim or burn out.

Then one day, your star began to burn out. Then the apocalypse came and my summers became as cold as winter solstices. Your breath would no longer press upon the nape of my neck as I used to swing my arms around you for tender hugs.

Your star is burned out. I didn’t know that the next time I’d see you; you’d just be a cold empty vessel. My heart turned bitter as I peered into your new mahogany sail boat to the heavens. You gave me a final heart-warming sensation before we parted ways. I felt your warmth down my cheek as I shed tears from touching your stiff frozen corpse.

I never wanted to get up from the crowd. I never wanted to hear the whispers “what’s he going to do? His mother is gone, who’s going to take care of him? He’s so young, his brother is too. I hope they are okay” or even better the whispers of how beautiful my mother was, or about how everyone loved her. None of these things mattered once you were in the ground mother dearest. You were six feet beneath, it felt like I was thrown down there with you. I daydreamed about it. My tiny hands reaching out for that casket; yet I was frozen, frozen right there in that moment watching you fall further and further from me. I felt like a disgrace. The people around it felt like their constant statements about the “pearly gates” were all clamoring together and it made this obnoxious ruckus into my frontal lobes. As the dirt began to cover you I felt a bitter shiver come over my body. I closed my eyes and played back our greatest memories. The memories flooded my mind, and as they did everyone saw a waterfall that afternoon. Everyone stood tall around me and their arms stretched around my back and engulfed me in their sad bellies.

I’ll never forget the moments that we shared. I’ll never forget your smile or your love.






My heart refused to pump

This useless blood through my body

I imploded and all the sadness and greed and addiction were washed away.

Everything I was: was adrift in the vast emptiness of the space between my thoughts.

Then this explosion of memories and

We have the best things in life on this planet that we are constantly filling with horrors unimaginable just a few years ago.

It just doesn’t matter to anyone that everything in the universe is amazing but, not a single soul is happy. Gold could rain from the sky and every man woman and child would still be just as empty as they are this very second.

I once thought that the person I was, who I am. Were this collection of memoires and a representation of the people I had touched in life, maybe I was wrong.

I’m not sure who I am though. I don’t feel like a human.

Regurgitated words I keep repeating them.

I’ve been hoping to throw my soul into a bottle of whiskey.

The smile that we all have plastered on I’m tired of looking at them.

We all look the same on the inside but we just can’t seem to identify it because of all of these caked on layers of utter Bullshit.

This entire so called book, is my excuse for me to complain. My tragic life is my masterpiece.

I’ve found myself thinking about dying, we’ve never been scared to die. Everyone has a problem living and fulfilling their dreams.

We trap ourselves in rooms, when life is an entire new world for us to live. Just break through your walls and explore.

I haven’t escaped my head yet. But I still see the universe from the places and spaces that I’ve occupied in my dreams.






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