A Stressed Poetic Vent


There’s so many

Thoughts and feelings

I’m experiencing

Right now

And I’m trying my damnest

To get them all out

On to paper

And into words

Truth be told

I have no idea what’s going on

In my head

In my heart

I want to blame it on others

But for what?

Why am I so stressed

And upset?

Does it have anything to do with you

Or am I just imagining it?

That must be the answer

That it’s all in my mind

Because when I talk to  you

All is fine.

Then what is this panic in my lungs

The frustration

I am numb


Is it all fabricated?

Why am I so dramatic,

What is wrong with me,

What is the source of these feeling

That are pilling into me?

Just write them down

Write them down

Let them all out

Once I am done I’ll have nothing to worry about.

But what if they don’t go away?

What if they lay inside

And start to decay

Rotting my insides

Day after day

How the hell

Am I supposed to live this way?

It’s Okay

It’s Okay

It’s all in your mind.

It’s Okay

It’s Okay

You just need a long night


A good,  rested sleep

That’ll melt away the stress

The grime,

The death,

Be gone

Be gone

And never come back.

Untitled (2008 Re-Write)


I actually didn’t touch this song at all because it is one of my all-time favorites. I hope you enjoy!

written 6/25/08:
I search my soul for a song unknown
I want to know why I feel so alone
I start to cry when I want to laugh
I feel so sad life can’t be so bad…

The rain falls
On my head
I know I shouldn’t give in
I believe in true happiness
I believe love is bliss
But I wonder about life’s purpose

I watch the rain clouds move above my head
I wonder if I’ll see them again
I think about my friend and all our fun
I wonder if our fun is gone
Sometimes I fall into a sea
Of memories. Sometimes I make-believe
I’m still young, and have an imagination

The rain falls
On my head
I know I shouldn’t give in
I believe in true happiness
I believe love is bliss
But I wonder about life’s purpose

Don’t you ever wonder, where has the love gone to?
Don’t you ever wonder, who do I belong to?
Do you ever feel alone?
I’m telling you you’re not alone.

The rain falls
On my head
I know I shouldn’t give in
I believe in true happiness
I believe love is bliss
But I wonder about life’s purpose

Don’t you wonder about life’s purpose?

In Case…


In case you wanted to know a little more about me, here is an essay I wrote in HS:

Life is like a movie montage. I lay back and watch the clips of my past play on the back of my eyelids like a film. Some memories are a blur, and some are vivid. All are significant. All have shaped me into who I am today,

I’m three. This isn’t my first memory, but this is where my movie truly begins. I don’t see the police charge into my grandmother’s kitchen; but I can see my mom with tears cascading from her eyes. I cry too as she speaks words I don’t understand. Now I’m in bed. Dad is leaning over me, saying his goodbyes. I’m numb. When he leaves, I pee the bed. I still don’t feel a thing.

I’m in first grade. My dad is in jail and my mom has a new boyfriend. I hate him. I walk past him as I get off the bus. He yells my name, but I keep walking. I walk into my fifth grade classroom. My curly hair is in knots, sticking up above my head, and apparently I smell. At least that’s what my teacher tells my mom during our parent teacher conference. Mom cries, what can she do to help me? She doesn’t know what to do with dad in jail. Is it affecting me? It hurts to see her cry like that. I want to comfort her, but I don’t know how. I look at my teacher who looks at me expectantly, like “what do you have to say for yourself?” I look back; back to fourth grade when mom gets a call from my dad’s fiancée. He was arrested again, and deported to Jamaica. His last chance to see his only daughter and he failed her once again. I look down to the table, at my project. It looks terrible, and I’ll probably get a seventy on it; but I don’t care. Who needs school anyway?

It’s my first day of middle school, and I’m nervous. I walk into my English class, and my teacher is kind. Maybe school won’t be so bad after all. We’re on poetry week, and I’ve found my calling. As I express my thoughts with a pen on lined paper, it feels right. I start off by writing poetry, but as we work through short stories I realize I’m good at those too. That’s when I knew I wanted to be an author.

When seventh grade comes, I give up again. My hair is hidden under a bandana. I wear one every day because my hair has become un-tamable, and school became unbearable. I wanted to leave. We do. I’m in a new school, and my step-dad is not going to let my grades slip again. I’ll hate him for years. Soon I’ll be thanking him for pushing me.

As my memories flash on the screen, I read my dad’s old letters. I cry and I cry. Through the tears I see, that in a way he was like me. He could write poems that spoke from the heart and gripped your soul. I wanted my work to be that powerful. I take them to school with me and read them in the comfort of the library. I feel calm. It feels like I’m at home as I sit, surrounded by books. I wish to feel like this for the rest of my life. At first I think that I want to open my own library; but then I realize that’s not right. No, I want to open my own bookstore.

With my curls pulled back into a pony-tail, I waltz into the Village Book Market and ask for a job. The owner can’t afford to pay for a real employee, but I agree to help out any way. I sit down at her computer and she teaches me how to catalog books, and the technical terms for describing their condition. It’s not a real job, but I know this is the first step I must take before I reach the second landing.

I open my eyes. The movie is not over, the rest is still being written

Child of the Sea


It ebbs onto my skin

Covering me:

Its kin.

It swarms into my soul

Its mysteries

Make me whole.

We breathe in unison



It draws itself across my body



I beg it to take me with it.

Let me be a part of you.

A storm swells deep within it

Come my child

As it falls over me

Like a tsunami

Taking me adrift.

Taking me home.





Congratulations for stumbling upon my blog! Let me introduce myself: My name is Mercedes. I am eighteen-years-old and fresh out of HS. For almost as long as I can remember, I have wanted to write. Even as a child, I didn’t want to play with dolls but with pieces of paper. I like to think I get my creativity from my parents. My mom, who doesn’t write much but when she does it is brilliant! She’s got the best imagination I know and I go to her for advice on my latest projects consistently. Then my biological father also wrote me poems when he was in jail… but that is a different story entirely.