Jerjan Nikko Alim | I am a singer, songwriter, tattoo model, pole dancer, and aerial silks dancer. I'm in the weed business, music business, and as I said, modeling business. I'm only 5'2 but since. I'm a college student. Formally attended Musician's Institute, now UCLA, majoring in Music Business. Because, no matter how cool you are, knowledge is never out. I collect watches, bongs, books, and all sorts of pocket knives. I have an obsession for Angelina Jolie & pit bulls. I have 2 UKC certified purebreed pitbulls. My next goals is to rub elbows with Ms. Jolie. I was a California 51/50 when I was a minor, crazy past, but it makes me a survivor.History is my favorite subject. I also happen to know a lot of facts about serial killers. Anything gruesome, morbid, and dark catches my interest. I'm mixed: Filipina, Persian, Chinese, and Spanish. I am uncommonly inquisitive ; relentlessly ruthless ; irrationally emotional ; impulsively spontaneous ; annoyingly meticulous ; adventurous with a large dose of rebellious. Also, I have a crazy judge of character. Good company with stimulating conversations are always a must for me. Let's be friends?
I have been homesick for you since we met.
Even the most
is wasted on lips
that repeat the
Yesterday, I spent 60 dollars on groceries,
took the bus home,
carried both bags with two good arms back to my studio apartment
and cooked myself dinner.
You and I may have different definitions of a good day.
This week, I paid my rent and my credit card bill,
worked 60 hours between my two jobs,
only saw the sun on my cigarette breaks
and slept like a rock.
Flossed in the morning,
locked my door,
and remembered to buy eggs.
My mother is proud of me.
It is not the kind of pride she brags about at the golf course.
She doesn’t combat topics like, ”My daughter got into Yale”
with, ”Oh yeah, my daughter remembered to buy eggs”
But she is proud.
See, she remembers what came before this.
The weeks where I forgot how to use my muscles,
how I would stay as silent as a thick fog for weeks.
She thought each phone call from an unknown number was the notice of my suicide.
These were the bad days.
My life was a gift that I wanted to return.
My head was a house of leaking faucets and burnt-out lightbulbs.
Depression, is a good lover.
So attentive; has this innate way of making everything about you.
And it is easy to forget that your bedroom is not the world,
That the dark shadows your pain casts is not mood-lighting.
It is easier to stay in this abusive relationship than fix the problems it has created.
Today, I slept in until 10,
cleaned every dish I own,
fought with the bank,
took care of paperwork.
You and I might have different definitions of adulthood.
I don’t work for salary, I didn’t graduate from college,
but I don’t speak for others anymore,
and I don’t regret anything I can’t genuinely apologize for.
And my mother is proud of me.
I burned down a house of depression,
I painted over murals of greyscale,
and it was hard to rewrite my life into one I wanted to live
But today, I want to live.
I didn’t salivate over sharp knives,
or envy the boy who tossed himself off the Brooklyn bridge.
I just cleaned my bathroom,
did the laundry,
called my brother.
Told him, “it was a good day.”
Wake up every morning and tell yourself that you’re a badass bitch from hell and that no one can fuck with you and then don’t let anybody fuck with you.
i write poetry because my heart bleeds ink and
my hands shake fire, i’ve never written a poem
about hurricanes or thunder, only your soul and
how you called me wallflower, at first i thought
the records that you played were meant to be
heard through the tempo of your soul, but only
when you left did i realize that pain tastes like
strawberry milk at 5 AM when you’re sitting on
sidewalk in black underwear and cigarette burns
on your tongue like bee stings, and when i visit
you in Hell, I hope you tell Satan I’ve come to be
your bride, so i can write another poem about
the way you chewed the words “God is a prison”