Monday, November 4

I want to be a Wordsmith or a Will Smith

I woke up today thinking about how unfair and somewhat offensive that was, even if that was or was not your intention. I didn’t think so yesterday. Maybe today I’m feeling, as they would say, “some type of way.” Where it stemmed from, I don’t know. It doesn’t feel good waking up with a chip on your shoulder. Some questions hold more accusations and offense than straight, belligerent statements. Fcuk it. Today, I feel like cutting loose ends. Regardless, today will be a great day because I hung out with Tap. As of late, I’ve been praising her innately. Why is your name Taphobia anyway? No one is afraid of you Tap. Lol. Eminem never disappoints me. All I’ve been listening to is the leak of Marshall Mathers LP 2. Maybe that’s where all this lividness came from. I've always wanted to be an actor, still do. Shout out to Will Smith, Paul Giamatti, Phillip Seymore Hoffman, Tom Cruise, Meryl Streep, Dustin Hoffman, Jack Nicholson, Denzel Washington, Woody Allen, Jessica Chastain and many more I can't bare to mention. 


I want to work words like a wordsmith
I want people that interpret to propose purpose
I want a word to paint a thousand pictures
I want more than just science fiction
I want to scribble down a bunch bible scriptures
In holographic hieroglyphics for high Egyptians
Documenting my documents to idolize
Never idling eager ears and eagle eyes
In hindsight,
My lines might just be braille to your blind side
I hope your third eye read between lines when I dot I’s
My letters are final it’s never been a prototype
My overdrive on overwrite goes overtime overnight
I waged war over four pages or a paragraph for something poemlike
And a hemorrhaged pen is my weapon of choice, I bled on these sheets only marginally justified in ink
I swore I wanted swords for words
But my swearing sharp tongue performs
Neither nor is mightier than these worn felt tips I hoard
I’m just trying to get my ball point across as many life sentences
Defining my confinement of sentimental references
Like this melancholia and this effervescent is
My personality’s duality sparing no frugality ever effortless
I want my verbs to seem verbose
Up close my words to seem wordy up until my early thirties
I want to seem quirky and herky-jerky with the qwerty
You couldn’t limit these digits and there just isn’t
enough characters for this character
carrying a conversation through text messages
If my words blew up in my face,
What would be written all over it?
The right words enlighten the ignorant with
The light switch that goes off in a dimwit
Understanding the rhymes and the context I wrote it with
I want to work words like a wordsmith
I want people that interpret to propose purpose

Post Script: So I did a Top 5 Eminem's Recovery album songs in June 2010. Thought I'd do his new album since he's my favorite rapper for his latest album Marshall Mathers LP 2. I'll buy his album this time since I've got the leaked version.

Top 5 Marshall Mathers LP 2
1) Legacy
2) Rap God
3) Headlights
4) Monster
5) Bad Guy

Sunday, October 20

Moms

I had a blogged planned. It was already written with a theme, a story and sentences. However, I hopped off the plane to see my favorite person in the whole world, an understatement, and my blog seemed to not exist anymore. Every word seemed to dissipated, as if they lost all meaning. At this point in time, nothing matters anymore, nothing but my moms. She's the only thing to me that will ever hold value to me. They can measure gold, by the ounces, by the pounds or by the price. They can't measure my moms. I call her moms and not mom for a reason. It's because she does the work of more than one mom or even more than multiple people. Moms is plural because that what she is, sometimes taking on the roles of the paternal and maternal roles. One day I'll show her off, I'll tell the whole world about her in front of an audience awaiting to hear of her greatness. Even that wouldn't be sufficient enough. Today it hurts; tomorrow it'll hurt. I'm writing about her and thinking about her because today she is a little bit stress, a little bit agitated, which is a rare siting. It's nothing from her own doing. She'll be okay though, she always reassures. How I yearn to know how to lay her troubles to rest and give every bit back to her. I wish you knew my moms and what she does and has done for my family and me. She is my rock, my protector. Jesus may indeed be my savior, but my moms is my mortal protector. She's a saint; she's my saint. A lot of people know my dad and what's he has done. Honestly, nothing impresses me about him, not the people he knows, the knowledge he knows, the money he has or even his resume as a whole. My moms does it for me, incomparably. No one does more and takes less credit than her. If people don't know her, it's because of her humility. Her good deeds runs laps around my dad's feats. I am, not at all, trying comparing the two. I'm just letting you know that if you know my dad, my moms will blow you away. If she won't cry, I'll cry for her. She the strongest and the most beautiful person I know. We don't deserve her or any part of her, but we were blessed with her. If ever I had any admirable attributes, it comes from her. Any weakness in my character is from my own doing. So, the little bit of this post is a token a of my appreciation towards her even though she won't read it. I can't bare to write anymore about her without drying my eyes out. Ask me about my moms, and you'll never hear the end of it.

Sunday, September 8

Thank You.

I remember that I first text you gibberish. Remember that I didn't want you to know who I am. Little did I know that when you gave me your number, it would be that death of me. How many you gave your number to I'll never know, but I know that I was one of them, the fortunate one. It was through Facebook.  You were playing volleyball; it was a Friday night, league night. Why I remember every aspect, I'll never know. One once said that you're in love, but it's just not with me. To you I say that I tried. I wasn't good enough or deserving enough. In all honesty, I never let go without trying to proceed, and I couldn't apologize enough. I never wanted to admit it until now. For that I am sorry to any test of faith, but in my heart she'll always be faithfully. I'm a big believer in faith. I hurt a little, just a little. Just a little too much because I never knew how much you'd mean to me. I place you on a scale, a scale that anyone following you would have to surpass you or equivocally match you. So far, I've had not luck. I was once lucky, I'll say, lucky enough to have found just a glimpse of heaven, an ethereal being only God could create in his own vision. At this particular moment, I don't care who reads this. For this is for you, for me, for anyone preceding. Everywhere I go I try to perpetuate to play out these scene that could be. No matter what, it all ends the same. It hurts, just a little. Just a little too much it hurts. I wonder if she's forgotten me, but somehow I think she'll might. There's a photograph I fall back on. I don't know if it's fiction or not. It's you falling asleep in front of a camera, my favorite picture to be. I don't mean to embed any insecurities to anyone reading this, but, instead, help you realize where I'm coming from. Maybe it's where I've been. Where I've been is in the past, nostalgic enough. I've always suffered from nostalgia, a better time. One time, I had it all. All I know is that I've lived, because of you I've lived. I never knew what living was until you. That sounds clique enough, but I died before, only to be reincarnated by the act of love. My priest once said that love is an action word, so for you I write. My soul thanks you though, for leaving a mark that shall never be tainted by any other human being. The sand is still on the bed, the bed which I've made. I don't want to haunt you with every memory I succumb to, but know that you're thought of, in the highest manner. I'm babbling long enough, so to you I say goodnight, sweet dreams. May your dreams come true, because mine has already. Thank you. Sincerely your, Travis.

Post Script: I come home drunken to write this because I promised to. Not too many can get me to blog, but, hey, I'll try. It's almost 4 o'clock and I'll write this to reach you. Maybe it's goodbye, but they'll be no sweeter goodbye than this. Love always.

Tuesday, September 3

Nevermore Neverland


Sometimes I can't put myself in the right place to write. Other times, I'm in the place to write but cannot. My emotions and writings shouldn't work together; it's a conflict of interest. This one is all over the place, but I sort of like it. It's all disheveled and shit. I'm confident that it won't be that popular, but I sort of like it. Welcome September and good night all.

Nevermore Neverland


We used to get lost together,
Like really lost together
Like we didn’t have any purpose, but each other we had
We fought our demons and wants
Found any safe haven and settled there
But somehow we weren’t together
I never had direction; you never knew of self-worth
I was lost; you were lost
So there we were two beings being lost together
But then I got lost in you
I found cause in you and because of you
You became the only one lost
That was until I lost you
Now were just two lost entities not together

Monday, August 26

Searching for Sugar Man

It's been a long time since this blog was created. I feel most loyal to this social network, although I don't blog as frequent. There's a certain relationship I share with the readers. They can attain my inner most thoughts, albeit I am not at all embarrassed. I want to take this time to thank you for your loyalty and for all the new followers, especially the recent few in/from other countries. I've spent some time tonight reading my old entries. Sometimes I'm a stranger to my own writings, even somewhat fascinated. Even though I've hidden behind  drafts, old files, and simple poems lately, I haven't forgotten about the novellas I owe or about the continuation and evolution of this blog. If you're patient with me, I may just intrigue us both. Most of what I've written, I still feel. I still feel, so don't forget about me just yet. Okay? I'm just feeling a little down right now, and maybe a little too honest. New works are in the making. I've just watched the best documentary I've ever seen "Searching for Sugar Man." Keep in mind I don't watch many documentaries, but I know this will retain its rank. Here's his first album via YouTube. He's even on tour this year, after being reincarnated in 1998. Maybe this will aid in the reincarnation of this blog.




Friday, July 19

3+2+6 = 3 A.M. Two Six-Liners

Thought I would do a quick-strike writing before I not getting sleep for my flight to California in the  morning. Don't know what else to say. It is 3 A.M. in the morning, and "I must be lonelier"- Matchbox Twenty. I love love just love sharing movies. Enjoy your time everyone; you never know...
Here are two six-liners-ish. If I don't make sense, which is the point, remember I begin to lose consciousness at this hour.

I Never?
"I never hurt enough?"
I never showed that I hurt enough
I never knew that I never showed that I hurt enough
I never felt so I never that knew that I never showed that I hurt enough?
I never was told so I never felt that I never knew that I never showed that I hurt enough
Now I know, and I heard enough

Nonsensical Musical
Sleeping patterns pitter patter
while I diddle daddle over parents that are fuddy duddy
eating fiddle faddle and this kiddo'll tattle if an ad-ult
lays on a little ladder, little later 
lots of ladies get together and gather bitter battles
writer then wrote riddle ravels

Sunday, July 14

Please Don't Stop the Rain

It's raining hard. Raining sounds like writing. So, I feel like writing, not about rain though. Hard rain means hard writing. Shout out to all the motherfcukers doing it, whatever it is. They know it was, is and always will be love here. Shout out for my boy Michael Vu for always hold it down like a fat kid on a see-saw, no pun intended, for fat kids that is. I was a fat kid, judge me later. Happy early birthday my dude.

I once wrote,
"Try righting anything valid is strong." So, I wanted to add a bit more to it so I created a poem out of it with 20 more since I was born on the 20th, of March that is. This one is called:

"Travis the Acronym"

Toddlers revive adults' vivacious infancy silliness
Teaching righteousness at very ignorant souls
Trivial responses agitate verbose intrinsic scholars
Trust reveals adequate vigor, indeed stature
Two resembling action verbs introduce synonyms
Truth reigns above any intuitive subconscious
Tasting rich art views ingests succulence
Time recollections account volacious instances savored
Tape recordings amplify voices in synchronization
Tonight readies alcohol vodka induced sleep
Taking risk actuates variable initiations swiftly
Turned reckless and violent impromptu situation
Twisted recommendations assume viral insane stories
Troublesome rebels acting vices inviting satire
The renegade's ability victimizes individuals' security
Turmoil reports activate vigilant incognito superheros
Trial releases also vindicates innocent soldiers
Tourist roaming as vagabond intercontinental seeker
Travelers revel air ventures into space
True remembrance actually verifies indicative significance
T.R.A.V.I.S.

The last sentence should go on my tombstone

Here's another one for your pleasure:

The Commentary Documentary

If it works in the movies, shouldn't it work here
It's the real world here, people's worth gets worked here
Being hurt isn't heard or seen, it's felt
Felt tip pens run out of ink with sad scenes
But scripts aren't open for critical review
Films fortify fallacies, frequently for the folly fools
People ain't acting too reals (two reels) anymo'
15 minutes of fame only makes half of a show
just half interesting for half-not interested
Just for the record, is this recorded?
What happens when the cameras aren't rolling?
Memories aren't for the TiVo-ing
So what you're telling me is just for a scene
us victims aren't traumatized enough
our lives have to be dramatized enough
too small to go on the big screen
Well based on true stories aren't based enough
Actors don't practice enough
documentary aren't too revealing
because life isn't as appealing
No directors, no directions
No producers, no productions
but slow inductions and road constructions of
dysfunctional beginnings and unfinished endings
Like this poem.

Here's yet another one for your pleasure:

We Killed chivalry
We killed chivalry
with enough artillery.
We bear arms on our women
Put our arms on our women
Why not put arms "over" our women
Hold hands with our women
We called the cavalry
to not give compl"i"ments,
but for men, women compl"e"ment?
We lust without love
We cheat without trust
The consequence of not consoling is abandonment
but players move on to the next level. Men never played the game.
the more things change, the more they "didn't" stay the same
'cause courting and courtesy aren't for all the dames
We deny their hearts but not the innards of their yoga pants and
too masculine for moonlit dinners and bedroom dancing
Men of the dreaming only live there
because knights without shining armor are only nightmares
Relentlessly defensive with a tongue as a sword, quick to en garde
about missed time and mistress, quick to run off
Why do they stay when we always go?
Tell her you'll never leave, always finding solace in her soul
We slaughtered the thought of monogamy
or have a half-hearted relationship with no signs of apology
Our arguments fill calibers with enough ammunition of her insecurities
To women, your guns weren't necessarily a form of security
We lie over the slightest, instead of lying there united
under the sun with son because there isn't a such thing as an army of one
Staying faithful isn't an accomplishment,
it's a requirement
Meant for men without a one track mind
One life, one lady, one wife in one lifetimeToo much pride to be proud
She's too noble not to be crowned
Kings of countries might work for some
but Queens rule above all where I'm from,
But
We killed chivalry,
with enough artillery.


I started writing these at 12 P.M. when it was raining. It's not longer raining and 4 hours later. The creative juices were flowing today.


Post Script: For months I've been having these two sentences stored:
Paper planes never flew away.
Broken thoughts broke away.

I don't know what to do with it or where it's going, possibilities are endless. To pursue or to not pursue, that is the contemplation.

 They say I'm poor because I'm living out a dream, but living out of houses are overrated.

Thursday, July 11

Self-_______?

It's almost mid July and I haven't gotten anything accomplished pertaining to my career. However, I've been on three vacations with one next week to Cali, started doing 12-hour shifts at my dad's restaurant, and a bunch of gaming and watching movies. C'est la vie. I don't know what to write anymore. I can keep hiding behind poem posts, but I don't want to write out directly what I feel. Usually, I don't even like to talk about myself much. I once wrote "sometimes I have episodes that turn into series made for a season." What part of the show is my life in, maybe the final season that nobody ever wanted? The one where I lose friends and grow up? At the moment, I feel less 24 than any of my peers. Seems like pushing people away comes easy and not trying becomes second nature. This is less of a depressing post than it is an observation. I feel love with music, movies, objects, and certain people. I'm just not expressing it like I used to. That's not right, at least to them! Find some gratitude why don't ya. If something changes and I man the fcuk up, I'll let you know, because you, blog, are my best friend as of lately. My post title is the way it is because I couldn't complete the second half of the word. Maybe you can fill it in for me. Love to those who keep up and even to those who don't.

Tuesday, July 9

What's Your Pleasure?

 Tonight I told myself I'd blog. Is it forced writing, maybe or maybe not. Just for tonight I'm feeling a little bit more artsy than yesterday or yesteryear. I'm trying to write more and get rid of some drafts. Every time I watch a Woody Allen movie, I learn a new but old part of the American culture. Plus, the fact that his work is so funny helps too. Did you know that comics were once heard over the radio? Crazy right? Here's to one draft completed, I think.

What's your pleasure?

What gets you off?
What sweeps you off of your feet or gets you on the balls of your feet?
Is it competitions, the composition of your feats?
Furthermore, maybe getting further from defeat.

What makes you feel good?
Is it Mister or Missis Feelgood?
Is it the other complex sex or having multiple sex with multiple sex?

What drives you crazy?
when that touch of adrenaline just rushes
adrenaline junkie, because the adrenaline just be
sending those pharmaceutical synonyms of not enough riddlin

What gets you up?
Like finding new women and
pursuing 'em
until you can mark your territory to tell a new story
Where do you go when it gets going?
Have you been bitten by the travel bug?
worldwide traveler, do you love to wander
or just have wanderlust?

How do you satisfy your needs?
Is it fashioning your outfit?
In your converse
and converse about
who is in and what they're in

What gets your riled up?
Is it the parties and clubs?
Music, alcohol and drugs
Then, you'll probably be above
the legal limit with your buzz

What makes your day?
Is it the money that you're making?
Is it your come ups and down payments,
paychecks and life savings?


What's your pleasure?
The kind of things I watch when no ones around:






If you think I watch these video and post them to be "different," you're dead wrong. I actually watch and enjoy these videos even if you don't. How can you not? I know I was born in the wrong decade, but maybe not so. If it were not for this decade, maybe I wouldn't have the privilege of seeing everything classic or modern.

Post Script: Sometimes (I'm actually referencing most of the time) black and white television has so much more color than this technicolor crap.

"Can I kick it? Yes you can." - A Tribe Called Quest

Could we please get it back
our desires because maybe Nate shouldn't be the only one with passion (passio(nate)
Backed with the past then Tory won't be the only one that knows his story (history)
It just makes sense to Pay Homage and Pay Attention, my 2 cents.
A wedding is far from my mind, but I want to write a bad ass wedding vow.



Monday, June 17

Goodbye Hi-atus



Hello all, sorry that I've been gone for so long. I hope to blog more often. Tuesday was some what a success at the Loving Day Poetry Circle. Thank you Delia, again, for the opportunity to bring such a diverse group of people together. So many people with so many experiences. I had two poems that I also had just incase there weren't enough other poets. Seeing people perform their passion brings out the artist, or lack there of, in me. Here's the two that I haven't performed yet and are on their early draft stages.

Tell Them Dominic
Tell them all Dominic, that you’ve become a runaway. Tell them that you’ve undid the shackles on your brain and the padlock on your creativity, because now they can no longer will be call you different. Tell them that the ideas are yours and you’ve released them like blooming lotuses. Tell them you won’t be a conformity or an abnormality when they’re performing so-called psychoanalysis to aid you in becoming a robot of mediocrity. Even if you can’t speak, you’ve responded with a language that normal humans couldn’t understand like it’s above their sound frequency. They may have not understood, but they have to understand. Because what you are saying, what you are relaying, may just yank them out the mind frame of a box that they’ve fallen asleep in. Because maybe autism isn’t a problem, maybe it’s a solution. So grant them more than just a few operations that they can do “normally.” When you look up autistic kids the internet shows them stacking and organizing their toys or objects because this is an example of autistic behavior. Little did they know that these little fellas were making a stairway to heaven weighing their choices of having being called socially awkward or actually being God’s apparatus, so they took the ladder (latter). They may have been showing signs of a modern day Michelangelo, making a contemporary Sistine Chapel only given a blanket as a canvas and toys as paintbrushes. What you call organized repetition, I’ll call artistic movement. Shakespeare created words that, at first, no one understood. And their so-called repetitive behavior is just their patience toward us trying to teach us that no two persons are the same, something we already know but fail to address. So there isn’t a reason why we should label them to revoke them of their geniuses. Being autistic is more like being Albert Einstein and explaining to you the theory of relativity when you were 4 and allowing for you understand. In fact, having Albert Einstein explain it to you now would probably bring about the same results. I remember taking out my Dominic out, and although he did not speak, I remember him responding better than most children that could. There was more authentic enjoyment and greater appreciation than almost any kid that I’ve taken care of. So in a world full of fake smirks, he’ll show you what it’s like to smile, over and over again.  Then, there was the day when they said Dominic is being to talk. I wanted dash across the room and yell to them, “Dominic probably wanted me to tell that you all are wrong, because autism isn’t a disorder. He’s been communicating; you’ve only just started being to listen.” I would’ve said tell them Dominic, tell them all Dominic. And probably just be there smiling, signifying that he has been trying to all along.



Being a Forgetful Lover Comes Easy


Being a Forgetful Lover Comes Easy

Today is Monday,
I called her to wish her a happy birthday, but got the dates confused and have already missed it.

Today is Tuesday,
A relative of mine asked me what your religion was, and I politely responded atheism, then changed it to one of those religions, and then just changed the subject in all.

Today is Wednesday,
I recalled you being of mixed descendants, but I couldn’t put my finger on of which ethnicities. The color of your skin doesn’t exactly give it away.

Today is Thursday,
Thursdays reminds me of the government for some reason, and I hate politics.

Today is Friday,
Last day of the work week. I know I’ve asked you before but what do you do at work, what’s your salary like, and will you even have benefits for us?

Today is Saturday,
As of late, I’m starting to think that I don’t know you too well and we JUST made up for your birthday this evening.

Today is NOW Sunday,
I don’t know if I forgot your age, religion, ethnicity, political party, wage and/or culture or if it just doesn’t matter, because today is Sunday and I simply love you. Every day has passed and I’ve loved you. And when that only matters, being an indiscriminate, forgetful lover comes easy.