Most people always wonder why I take my time to do something archaic and out dated like writing. They see writing as a waste of time, something left to people who do English and Literature.

PSA! One, I am an English and literature major and two, I am a writer.

Okay, so you may be wondering what type of writing I am talking about. Well I am talking about thew good old form of writing, the one where you take a pen and a paper and pour your emotions out.

Sounds like something hard? yeah. right.

It’s hard because most people prefer to bottle up their emotions.

With the invention of modern technological ways of writing like typing which makes work easier, writing your thoughts on a paper can become something tedious for most of us.

Personally for me,

I knew I was gifted child when it came to languages especially English when I was around 7. My interest in books was so great that by the age of 10, I had read so many books that I couldn’t remember some. Funny huh? Not really. It happens.

Anyway, fast forward into adulthood, I came to appreciate the beauty of writing.

Writing is the only form of art that keeps me sane. That exhilaration that comes from seating in front of your computer and being able to literally BLEED is totally awesome.

Most writers can relate.

Through writing, I find a voice. I am able to speak about things I normally can’t say out loud.

Writing helps me be myself. It helps me embrace my true inner self.

Through my stories, I travel all over the world.

Yes, my mind is a place full of ideas.

Writing gives me a way of expressing my emotions without coming out as needy or attention seeking in this world full of egocentric assholes.

Whenever I feel sad, I find it easy to grab a book and create a character that’s undergoing a situation similar to mine than calling a friend and talking about it.

Yeah. I know. I know. Most of the times we need friends but then again, the people we need the most are ourselves.

I can go on and on ranting about why I choose to write but all I can say is writing is the only way we can show our true selves without letting our guard down.

I mean, nobody likes heartbreaks right?



I want to scream.
I want to shout.
I want to cry.
I want to throw a fit.
I want to break things and start a fight for no reason.
I want to set myself on fire or slash my wrists.
I want to put a bullet in my head or dangle lifeless from a noose.
I want to bang someone’s head on a car repeatedly until it’s smashed; his face unrecognizable.
I want to claw at my face.
I want to pull my hair until it stings.
I want to be rude and avoid people.
I want to smoke and sulk the whole day.
I want to hurt people for no reason at all.
My anger is killing me.
It’s eating me.
My own self hate is devouring me alive.
It’s completely destroying me, one feeling at a time.
I’m way past loving myself.
I am annihilated.
I can’t be saved.
I can’t even save myself.





Generally I’m tired.

Things exhaust me of late.

I’m out in pursuit of what I can’t get. Or wait, can I get it but I just don’t want to go for it?

Life is a bitch especially when I feel like this.

Like I am just a worthless piece of shit.


I’m so done over here.

*Smokes another joint*

skinny love by Birdy plays in the background.



Aaah. Writers. We are the people who choose to share our emotions, our feelings and our lives with the world. Every writer is able to relate to the thrill that comes with siting in front of your computer or having your pen in your hand or just relaxing somewhere calm when suddenly an idea hits you and Bam!

You are literally bleeding your heart out. (inside joke Ha!)

Yes! Bleeding.

Everyone needs some motivation, right?

Here are some quotes that will make you appreciate being able to write.

Stay inspired my fellow writers.






Today he did raise his hands to beat me.


I recoiled in fear trying to make myself seem small, almost invisible.

I used my hands to block the impact of his blows but it was worthless.

My nose was bloody and my left eye was swollen.

I tried to scream.

“Shut you you slut!”

He shouted at m while kicking my ribs.

I doubled up in pain as tears welled up in my eyes.


He spat on my face before leaving me, banging the door as hard as he could behind him.

Every time this happened, I would lie on the floor feeling pathetic and helpless,

crying my heart out.

“But why can’t you leave him? you deserve better B.”

Haha. aah yes.

I deserve better.

And what will I get again?

Another man who hits me like a punching bag?

Another man who uses my body for his own twisted pleasures?

Another man who slaps me and gropes me in front of my children?

Tell me.

What type of “better” do I deserve?







And there is this hurt in me that has refused to die.

A gnawing feeling of guilt and emptiness deep inside.

A feeling that is eating me up, devouring me.

I have severally tired to find myself but I have failed.

I admit it, I am weak.

I have no strength left in me.

Every night, in my bed I cry,

tears of pain, agony and joy.

Every night I let my demons out.

It’s painful.

It’s painful I say.

It hurts like hell but then again in my weakness, I am strong.

Mama raised no quitter, Oh yes she did not!

but… but I am tired.

My feet are sore and my spirit is crushed.

My soul has been stripped bare.

My confidence is left faltering.

Is this worth all this pain?

All this suffering?

In my pursuit of happiness, inner peace and inner calm worth my tears?

Please tell me.

Tell me because I am giving up.

I am tired.