It’s Been a While Since I’ve Been Young

My right forearm / wrist has had sharp pain
since work Wednesday morning
when I took out a garbage bag
filled with matcha pudding.

I missed work on Thursday
and I took care of my hand
using a homemade sling –
actually a resistance band.
I downed a gallon of chocolate milk
for the protein and calcium,
and what do you know…
I could’ve been a decent doctor.

When I returned to work on Saturday,
there was some hope that somebody would notice.

I told a colleague
about my boo boo.
And I reaggravated
my boo boo.

But nobody really cares about your problems.

There’s a sink at work that has stabbed
nine tiny holes on my other forearm
plus a long gash for good measure.
I feared looking like a heroin user,
but now I see a constellation.

I told a co-worker – she saw it happen –
and she said it doesn’t happen
to anyone else.
Only me
because I’m some kind of dummy.
Why me?

Who really cares?

For a couple of years now
the arch of my left foot
sometimes has sharp pain.
Maybe it’s because of the weight gain.
Maybe it’s because I jumped off
a twelve foot boardwalk
one day during my Dark Era
and an old foot injury says hello
from time to time
after all those years.

Sometimes, I walk like my father now
with his short, quick strides,
a slight limp,
and a pissed off look on his face.
I wanted to be my father in some ways,
but not in that way.

I should’ve cared about his problems.
It could be karma.

I don’t believe in karma.

when I go out for a night of drinking,
I could feel the dull aches of my liver
trying to tell me
that it can’t take it
like it used to.

Nobody ever really cares about your problems.

But I hear you, body.
I feel you…

I think I’m proud of these “scars”.

I used to be scared of growing old,
but there are some things that happen
that make me contemplate
if I really care.

So, body, who really cares?

Call Me Lawrence (Again)

It’s no longer Edward.
Edward is my father’s name.
He made a life out of it.
I didn’t.

My name has always been Lawrence.
Edward was just a phase.
It’s still my middle name,
my second name,
but everyone knows me as Lawrence.

To some of my family, I am Tatang
which means “old man” in Tagalog.
(I’m SLOWLY growing into it.)
To those assholes in high school,
if they still remember,
it was Bulldog, Potato Head, Scat,
or whatever else they came up with.
To my lady,
I am Lover,
or Daddy,
which I always thought was
a self-fulfilling prophecy.
When she’s angry,
she calls me Lawrence.

So, no more Edward.
It was only a phase.
My writer-looking-for-a-new-name phase.
My put-a-past-life-behind phase.
My my-enemies-know-me-as-Lawrence-so-I’ll-change-my-name-so-they-won’t-find-me phase.

But I’m so Lawrence
that I forgot to tell people in my new job
to call me Edward.

I guess I wasn’t dedicated to being Edward after all.

when I started to want to be called Edward,
I met a guy named Edward.
He’s cool.
He built a life out of that name.
I didn’t.
So, in our circle,
he’s the only one who deserves to be called Edward.

So, I’m Lawrence.
Call me Lawrence.

If you didn’t get the memo before
that I wanted to be called Edward,

Then disregard this.

I Am Not a Poet

I am not a poet.
I do not know how to speak with meaning,
and I do not know how to use words
nor do I know where they came from.

Babble, babble, babble.

Six years of college means nothing
if you don’t go to class
because of social anxiety
or whatever excuse there was that day,
like stressed-induced diarrhea,
or because the professor was crazy and you were scared,
or because you were craving that good halal food.

I picked up some words along the way,
but I still don’t know how to use them;
to shape them into poetry.

I’ve written lyrics.
Four years worth of them.
But the words didn’t come spontaneously.
For the most part.
They took years
with the help of rhyme sites,
and dictionaries.
And there were droughts.

But I’m still not a poet.

I feel as if you have to write poetry,
live poetry,
breathe poetry.
Every day.

If anything,
What I am is a writer.

But I’m not a poet.

What a relief.
I’m one more BABY step
to knowing who I really am.

Entry: “I Am a Songwriter(?)”

Monday, July 16th, 2018

It is official. I am a songwriter.

Wait. Hold on.

*Googles the definition of “songwriter”*

According to Merriam-Webster – “Songwriter (noun): A person who composes words or music or both especially for popular songs

According to English Oxford Living Dictionaries – “Songwriter (noun): A person who writes popular songs or the music for them

Do they have to be popular? Am I not looking in the right places for the definition? I am not a songwriter then?

You know what? No. I am a songwriter. Here is my definition.

“Songwriter (noun): A person who writes songs”

Is there another word for it? Am I a lyricist? I am not going to even bother checking on Google. I am a lyricist.

I have written ten songs, enough for a standard album. If I cannot be called a “songwriter” or a “lyricist”, then what am I?

Thought: “A Book about Bleepers”

Monday, June 25, 2018

On June 16, I tweeted the following on my Twitter:

“I will write a book on the people I’ve known in my life with serious issues to raise awareness to stay away from them.”

I already see it. Among a dozen people:

Chapter 1: My High School Bully (Long Chapter)

I have to keep in mind that I should be objective and not use the F-word when describing them.

Stream of Consciousness: “Uh-oh Times 100”

Tuesday, July 10, 2018

Uh-oh. I forgot to submit a request for travel reimbursement at my job. The deadline is 60 days. It has been 65 days. So, I have wasted about $12. Damn. I spent over an hour trying to remember the account name and password to my E-ZPass account. That is somewhere in my mind. That is somewhere on the four email accounts I oversee. I failed to figure it out, so now I have to find a statement at home because I can’t remember the account number to perform a password recovery.

Uh-oh. I forgot to reduce a monthly payment towards my student loan. Previously, I have invested most of my paycheck towards my student loan, but now, I want to be able to afford a new bedroom set in my new house. So, now, I need to reduce monthly payments soon or else I will be sleeping on the floor again for a month.

Uh-oh. I need to caulk and spackle the rest of my basement to battle a tick and centipede problem. I need to caulk the bedroom, the kitchen, the bathroom, and around the living room. It is not a big space, so I do not know what is the hold up. I have only one more 10 oz stick of caulk, so I should head to Home Depot. I guess the bedroom is the priority for now.

Uh-oh. I need to figure out how much I owe my mother and pay her back.

Uh-oh. I need to continue revising my horror screenplay before the end of the year AND write a sequel. I need to have some writing completed if I am going to make a career out of it. Without it, I probably have nothing. Some nights, I try writing music instead. I should go back to my horror. No, my lyrics. Horror. Lyrics. Horror. Lyrics. Horror.

Uh-oh. I need to lose… 65 pounds… by the end of the year. Not even. Just make it 40. 35. I need to make some progress. I am almost 30. I am getting old. My indulgence in fast food, my obesity, my unhealthy diet is most likely taking a toll on me. I will be slowly dying in my 30s if I do not shape up right now.

Uh-oh. Not really. I want to continue my 2K18 career. Come on, man! You do not have time for that!

Uh-oh. I need a new car. My old car stalls every time I go over 50 MPH. It is like the movie Speed, but in reverse. It won’t take me to work in the Bronx or Long Island. It seems like everyone around me is spending too much money on car repairs. I should be like my cousin, George, who buys his own parts and spends a week trying to fix his car himself.

Uh-oh. My job is starting to stress me out. Driving to work every day, I feel like I am going to have a panic attack. I feel like I have peaked. It has been seven months and I still feel like I do not belong. Of course, it is my position. I am a floater. Being on the road is wearing me down. The different people are wearing me down.

“What’s your name again? You know my name, but I forgot yours.”

I do not want to seem rude, forgetful, aloof, disinterested, uncaring, unintelligent, etc.

All this wear on my mind has affected some of my job performance. My superiors who thought I was good before, might think I suck now.

Uh-oh… That is it for now.