faraway home

Writing Prompt: Faraway

Write a new post in response to today’s one-word prompt.


My home is faraway in unfamiliar land.
It is beyond moon and stars.
It is beyond our ideas of galaxies.

I am forgotten there.

My home is faraway in familiar land.
It is beyond oceans and skies.
It is beyond questions asked.

I am forgotten there.

random thoughts #1

No one wants to hear that there are days when I feel so afraid that all I want is for the world to end so that everything that makes it ugly would disappear and never return. No one wants to know that some days I go out on my porch at midnight, lay on my back, look up at the stars, and wonder if there are other worlds teaming with life, without war, without sadness, without all the things that make me want to leave here. There are days when I want to be abducted in hopes that the grass just might be greener on the other side of this galaxy. But there may not be something else out there. Maybe I only want there to be so I can escape this equal share of paradise and prison.


No one wants to entertain my thoughts about the beauty and wretchedness of humanity. Because those who see it as beautiful or ugly don’t want to see the other side of their vision. It’s all too temporary to worry about. Where you are in your mind determines which you see, which you view as temporary first. I look painfully at us and other living things that equally have a right to determine the future of this planet, but are not allowed to do so. Animals are abused, trees are abused, every thing that exists upon this land is abused—we are abused.


But we are loved—at times. I see this creep in and I smile. But then I see it quickly fleet away with each new report of humans killing other humans. Still, the love lives in tiny spaces, in the gentle whispers followed by soft touches that tell more than words need to. The love lives in the glass of water brought to my bedside when I am sick. It lives in the smile I receive when I leave my belief riddled intentions behind and let need appear on its own, then, when asked, I help, and not merely to satiate my need to be seen or seem good. Ego cannot live inside true love. Ego eclipses all things impure. Ego causes pain and makes me forget that others have mind and needs and beliefs and ideas. And sometimes, those ideas won’t be mine, and that’s ok. They shouldn’t be. And I shouldn’t force what I believe on anyone. I shouldn’t steal little children from their villages and take them to mine to teach them about my god. I shouldn’t cut their hair and tell them that their language is inferior and that they should never speak it again, ever. Ego, fear and impertinence does this. I have no right to do this to anyone. Because they live here, just like I do, in their skin, believing what they believe. And they didn’t come to me and take me from my beliefs by force.

But my truth is hard. My truth sends me within. So I go there and let the layers peel back.

Humans can be ugly beings, with beautiful ideas not yet born. When the ideas exit the mind-womb, we become creators of things. Sometimes the creations are words and symbols strung together to form possibilities never before imagined. These take shape and give us something to do while we figure out why we are here. In my world of truth, I am too afraid to tell anyone that in truth, we know nothing. I cannot argue whether all things can be knowable, because that also falls into the realm of that which we do not know. But for now, the fact remains that no matter what we all believe, no matter what belief we latch on to, a god, no god, creation, evolution, a big bang, at the end of it all, we have no way of knowing (at the moment) any of the things we claim as the source of our existence. Because we weren’t there at the start of it all to claim it as the end of the conversation. While not impossible, we may never find the truth, because that would require a time machine that could take us back to the start of it all, to a god, to a molecule, a gas, a speck of matter-less formless darkness with sentience or without, where we could sit and watch what that first event looked like that has led us to where we are now, in this space, on this planet, at this keyboard, with me typing words given to me by those who came before me, insufficient words that do nothing to express the depths of what I am thinking and feeling. What I feel and conceptualize have no symbols that can form my thoughts into something tangible for all to understand. So I write this not in hopes of coming to an understanding, or to somehow bring clarity, but to simply write and vomit forth these simplistic symbols that are a poor substitute for what I imagine psychic abilities would solve.


No one wants to hear that I think we are all children on this planet, spiritual infants crying for mother’s breast milk. Violence—wars, murders, abuse of any kind—are the telltale signs of our infancy. We’ve been taught to see this as a normal part of humanity, rather than an abnormal part of our spiritual existence—if there is even a spirit to point to. This could all be a waste of time, the notion of spirit and purpose. Writing this could be a waste of time and energy, a pointless musing leading to a pointless end. So few can hear this. Because we’ve been taught that energy never dies, so even if we have discarded the notion of god, we’ve given ourselves another god, energy. So now, we latch on to that, and claim it as our new truth, when in fact, without the benefit of a couple thousand years to physically and continuously observe energy, we actually do not know how it behaves. Maybe we perceive it as not ending because of our limited observation. In fact, it could die, after a mere one thousand years, and from another source, new energy is born. Simply put, maybe energy isn’t immortal, but because we are not immortal and can live only a century at a time at most, we have yet to know that energy is mortal, and may very well die after a thousand years or more once we closely observe it from a specific source under controlled conditions. So few want to hear my mind and my truths, because who am I? I am just some chick, typing words on a screen, thinking. Thinking. Thinking. And feeling. And wondering like so many before me have wondered. See, I’m not supposed to think, because the world has taught us that only those with a degree in what they are thinking about are allowed to speak. But science did not develop merely from experiments, all science begins with the idea.

I am an idea, maybe. Possibly. Imagine I am an idea born from a mind that is no god, but merely alien species. Maybe we are the dreams of another species and we think of ourselves as real. Maybe when we die, that is the species waking from its dream.


No, my truths aren’t worth hearing or reading. My ideas aren’t for the Earth bound. They come from a place of pain. They come from wanting a better world, one that isn’t filled with fear and ego that drives man and woman to behave as though in an insane asylum. I want us all to say, “I don’t know.” I want us to chant it until it melds into our DNA and seeps into generation after generation. I want us to be humble, say it, admit that we don’t know, so that the madness can stop and we can refrain from forcing ourselves and ideas and truths on others, but rather, let all our truths and all our ideas just be a conversation, a bucket filled with thoughts that we see and can drink from if we wish, not by force.

I don’t know anything. All I’ve written can be discarded. I am not attached to it in any way. Much of what I’ve written could be right, but it could all be wrong. Maybe I’ve said too much, or nothing at all of importance. It’s all convoluted to some and coherent to others, it depends on where you are inside yourself. At the end of the day, it doesn’t really matter much, because it’s all just a question. I release the answers to whatever is out there, a god, the universe, nirvana, the darkness, the light, you, me, the nothingness. I release all the symbols typed on this screen. They are not mine, really. They belong to nothing and no one. They are thoughts that float in and out of my consciousness. I fearlessly release them, yet fearfully hope for the answers to come, for something to come. Maybe all I need is a time machine, to take me back to the beginning of it all. Maybe then we can all relax, leave each other alone and enjoy whatever this is we are living. Maybe.

uncaged voice

Writing Prompt: Voice

Write a new post in response to today’s one-word prompt.


i am trembling voice. i am fear finding footing and tongue. i am freedom picking the lock to my cage with skeleton key words that find their way through tumblers and springs. the door will open and i will be set upon the oppressed world, unlocking the black and gold bars of those who couldn’t see their cage. tongue lashing, words whipping, voice shaking hills upon hills of status quo. i will swing cages wide and far and let my voice spill into the streets, words littering roads, blocking hate and ego from passage. i am voice flying without wings into future worlds; fast, furious, naked for all to see. i am trembling…no longer from fear. but because my voice needs to heal; it must heal or i’ll die. it must reach ears that want peace and freedom, so they will know how uncaged voice can change the trajectory of existence. how uncaged voice can change everything that i am. how uncaged voice can set fire to the silence.

the wanting

the gale lifts me up to the white clouds.
tufts separate then fold around me.
i fly toward Proxima Centauri, Alpha Centauri’s star.
my wings gather stardust along the way.

i fly through still unbroken blackness.
and learn to breathe with cosmic lungs.
light is my destination or my path.
it all leads back to a million forgotten selves.

i seek the other side of galaxies.
near the farthest ends of tomorrow’s needs.
something waits there for me.
it is wanting what i have not learned to give.

it is wanting my many yesterdays.

© zaji, 2016


to tell you a story


I want to tell you a story.

But the words are dangerous and may draw blood.
They come sharp, and sometimes come in hollow points.
They are piercing.
Always seeking darkness.

To tell you the story opens wounds.

Because the words no longer cauterize.
They tear flesh and sometimes bone.
They cannibalize the heart.
Always seeking sacrifice.

I want to tell you my story.

But it’s difficult to bleed you.
Difficult to watch your essence drain.
Each breath you take leaving you.
As I spit truth upon the altar.

© zaji, 2016

no help for the helpless

Writing Prompt: Help

Write a new post in response to today’s one-word prompt.


Giant black garbage bags sat to the left and right of her. They were sentries protecting her from the nothingness she fell further into each day. Tan holed socks over crusted unwashed feet kept out some of the chill. She untied the bag to her left. She rummaged inside looking for another sock, but nothing changed since yesterday. She knew this deep down, but like a child on Christmas Day she hoped that she possessed Santa’s special red velvet gift bag that produced whatever one asked for from thin air. There were never any new socks to be found and Zoe certainly didn’t have Santa’s bag. All she had inside were the vestiges of a life once lived. To lose or have anything stolen from her bags would doom her to permanent homelessness and a past that would be erased as though it never existed. So she kept them close and tied her knots tight so no one could see what was left of her life after the fire.

Zoe needed help and asked for it many times. But the system kept her in an endless loop of wants and needs that could never be fulfilled. She pleaded for help, often pleading with only the air and wind, and sometimes a God who seemed to have forgotten he’d made her. She was an only child and her parents who had died were only children. All her grandparents were dead. She was alone, forced to face monthly periods and a growling stomach on the streets of Manhattan, or as a mole underground where light and air were only for those with money. Most times, it was food or maxi pads. Food always won because blood could not be eaten nor bartered for socks. Instead it stained her life each full moon and reminded her that help would never come; but the full moon would never end.

There was no help for her. Only endless days of coins hitting tin cups, an empty knotted stomach each week and crimson blood on the sad full moon.

my footsteps

Writing Prompt: Footsteps

Write a new post in response to today’s one-word prompt.


I walk through the rain pelted land,
my footsteps following me as I go.

Seeds fallen from towering trees settle on the dirt.
My footsteps squeeze them into the soft soil.

I look back to see where I once was.
Steps from the past leave stories.

The stories are shaped by me.
I am shaped by them.

They walk on, behind me,
my footsteps.

I am left standing inside myself,
hoping for a future not promised.

© zaji, 2016

i see friend

Writing Prompt: Friend

Write a new post in response to today’s one-word prompt.


i see friend.
she stand there.
years blooming on her face.
smile rising inside me.
she speak decades back.
she conjure long gone words.
she remember laughs.
she remember cries.
she remember moving earth and sea,
because she gonna come see me.
she gonna let me run tears.
she not gonna talk,
cause i need to cry quiet, no words.

i see friend.
standing in rain.
i open door and she step in.
we spread across bed,
and let words flow.
we talk life.
we talk love.
we talk dreams.
we reach into the remembering.
we scare away forgetting.

i see friend.
she coming back for me,
from the grave.
she riding resurrection’s back to see me.
she coming back,
cause i need her now,
in this empty room,
in this space that friend once filled.

© zaji, 2016

my magic

Writing Prompt: Do You Believe in Magic?

You have been transformed into a mystical being who has the ability to do magic. Describe your new abilities in detail. How will you use your new skills?


My magic has wings and can fly into infinity. I am covered in the aura of possibility. When anyone looks at me, they are able to engage with the cosmic forces and gather new ways of seeing and understanding the world. They are moved to change all the things that plague humanity. My magic is strong and everlasting. It allows those who see me, to see themselves more clearly. My magic turns on the magic inside others.

There would be nothing for me to do. My magic, like a single cell, multiplies on its own, spreading to everyone and everything, creating all that can heal humanity.

the fight in us

Writing Prompt: Fight

Write a new post in response to today’s one-word prompt.


I don’t understand the fight that humans have in them. We fight to stay alive, yet many do things that seem like a fight to die. Everything seems to be a fight toward an inevitable end that will lead nowhere.

Then there is the so called fight for love. It is an oxymoron. Love shouldn’t require a fight. Yet many find themselves fighting for an idea that by its very nature should be done in a space of peace and tranquility.

All around us, there is a fight going on. Everything is a fight. I’m tired of the fight. It is draining.

inventing a culture

This is another piece I was working on that I think could become something. It’s unedited. I think it might make a good short story.


“What are you in for?”
        “You don’t wanna know,” answered Larry to the strange man in the cell across from him.
        Larry’s head was bent low. He looked dejected and filled with a heaviness that was familiar to all his cellmates. They all knew the look. They too had gone through the sad realization that it was not every invention that would be met with the sound of roaring applause from their peers. They’d screwed up and they were doing time for their infraction.
        “Come on man, tell us!” cried another cellmate two cells over. His mirror was dusty and dark. Larry wondered how he could see down the hall with it. His hands were equally as dusty and dingy, dried out like a prune rolled in dirt.
        “What’s you’re name, guy?” asked Larry.
        “Francois Ignatious.”
        “You’re the Ignatious, who invented the biodegradable car?”
        “I would be him.”
        “It is such an honor to meet you. You are lauded as one of the greats in the culture. It was so sad to learn of your demise. How could you know that your tires would not degrade? It was a minor error on your part, not deserving of this hell hole.”
        “Thank you good man. And what is your name?”
        “Larry. Larry Livingstone.”
        “Mr. Livingstone, pleased to make your acquaintance. Not to worry. I only have six months left on my time. I’ll be out and about in no time. I will hence be more discerning in how I unfold my theories to ensure I do not blunder in such a way again.”
        “It was a mere slip dear sir,” Larry responded.
        “Yes, but a slip that cost me two years in prison. Why are you here?”
        “I invented an item that assists the populace with cleaning their teeth. I call it, a teeth-scrubber.”
        “What happened?”
        “Well, the first few on the market degraded as they should have. But there was some slight mistake with the chemical structure and a few would not degrade. What made it worse, was that it was happening primarily with the children’s teeth-scrubbers. So I’m sure you can imagine the outrage that came from the parents.”
        “Oh my,” said Francois.
        “Yes. It escalated to a flood of letters to my institution. Children were said to wake up screaming in terror because the items would not degrade. They would see the items, now invincible against nature, chasing them endlessly. It was a nightmare for everyone involved. But the children. I didn’t mean the children any harm. They are so innocent. To think they were forced to imagine a world where things did not degrade and would live on forever upon the earth to haunt them for all eternity.”
        Larry began to cry. A few of the men shed tears with him, remembering their own misadventures. There was a hush that came over them. Larry looked at his teeth-scrubber in near disgust.

absence of fear

I am listening to “Absence of Fear” by Jewel. This song is poetry. I feel it reach into me and remind that I am here, in this existence, breathing, seeing, feeling, thinking. Loving.

There is much to the idea of living in the absence of fear. The world is deluged with fear. Fear keeps us all in our lowest of chakras. It’s as though fear has become a drug that no one is capable of withdrawing from.

Withdrawal is the only way for balance to be found. I begin with me. I will learn to live in the absence of fear.


skeleton keys

Writing Prompt: Secret

Write a new post in response to today’s one-word prompt.


I don’t believe in secrets. It seems pointless to me. Every experience is a lesson not just for me, but for everyone. This is not to say I will run around telling everyone my life. I most certainly do not do that. But if I am asked about something, I have no problem responding and sharing my experience, or, sharing my “secret”. Will I answer just any random person? No, but that doesn’t mean I am keeping a secret. It means I am discerning about who deserves to know my truths and experiences.

breaking up with procrastination

Writing Prompt: Shape Up or Ship Out

Write a letter to the personality trait you like least, convincing it to shape up or ship out. Be as threatening, theatrical, or thoroughly charming as is necessary to get the job done.


Dear Procrastination:

You’re a menace and I’m tired of your slack ways. You are addicted to waiting and addicts are simply not welcomed here. You need to get your act together and change immediately. Everyday you come to me with your whining and complaining about what you don’t want to do. Frankly, I no longer care. There are plenty of things no one wants to do, but it needs to get done nonetheless. You are caught in a quagmire and come hell or high water, you need to pull yourself out.

Life won’t wait for when you’re ready. You make the excuse that you are merely a slow writer. But that isn’t really the case. Is it, Procrastination? You simply don’t want to do things when they need to get done.

Stop it! Stop it now!

Honestly, I’ve been trying to find a kind way to say this, but you can’t remain here any longer. That is all there is to it. You must go. I’m sorry. You’ve been a strange sort of security blanket, but you must go permanently. I would tell you I love you, but in truth, I don’t. You’ve done nothing but cause me pain and strife.

Procrastination, have a good life. I need to move on. Without you.

colored girl's comb

Just wrote this piece. I love experimenting with prose/poetry ideas. I was thinking about how I comb my hair and whether the experience has meaning. I believe with a few edits I could mold this into something interesting.


Coils, curls, swirls and twists wrap around my colored girl’s comb.
Unraveling spirals move through years of teeth.
Combs carry stories of untamed hair.
I am not without remembering.
My comb whispers secrets to my locs
that my soul doesn’t want to know.
Tresses fold tight, frozen by time.
Maybe by fear.
My colored girl’s comb,
it molds to my colored girl hair.
I mold to my colored girl comb.

© zaji, 2016

love (an experiment)


I am shaped by fierce white clouds against ancient blue skies
Nova bound stars hang from the ends of my long black warrior locs
Bright shooting rays yellow the engorged land
My heart is my sword
I am wanting to cut into the soul of humankind
Bleed them into beauty
I am wanting love atop meteors
Burning up the night before sinking into soil and sea
The bright white and red tail left behind are my tears
They dissipate behind the rock carrying love
It carries love and my hopes
It carries me back to here

© zaji, 2016

the highway


The dusty black tar receding behind Panga ran into the forlorn past. Far from the groping and needy future, the road ahead beckoned her to follow.  She was worn from the sleepless drive. Morning became her night and the sun her night light. But a place to bed was more of a challenge than she’d expected. She wanted nothing more than to sleep until death claimed her. Death instead claimed her two year old daughter, husband of five years and her mother who suckled her into womanhood through breast and bravery. Panga knew that if she traveled the roads at night she would see them in the mint green car, driving back to meet her. They would rewind time, return from the great beyond and find Panga roaming the highways; no hopes necessary, only life wrapped in second chances, straightened metal, unbroken glass and bodies laughing in the noonday sun.

© zaji, 2016