System Shortage

Have you ever had to visit the emergency room late in the night or smack in the middle of the evening?Chances are you were informed, by a well-intentioned nurse, that only one doctor was present to treat all patients; making your butt hurt from waiting a ridiculous amount of hours for a medical condition that could have been seen in a snap.

Every governmentally-run service deals with staff shortage. You can therefore receive great service, but only on weekdays; where the regular/more experienced staff members are on deck.

Prisons, rehabilitation centres, medical facilities, family resources, crisis centres, law enforcement services are all more prone to mistakes and lack of proper care past a certain time or during weekends and holidays, due to poorly trained young/new staff and unionized regular/more experienced workers avoiding the crappy shifts.

At the end of the day, the government and its employees do not pay the price for this staff shortage; it is those in need of the system who are forced to climb the ladder when every new week begins, because of mistakes that could have been prevented with proper training and reliable personnel outside of habitual operating hours.

The lockdowns and curfews are not to save lives (though the government greatly makes them seem to be); they have been put in place by the system to not overflow medical facilities and allow the few night shift law enforcement workers to perform their duty without needing to place their energy on “illegal” gatherings.

The problem is not the pandemic, it simply shed light on the fact that most people intelligent enough to join these ranks are unable to study in these fields because of their financial situation.

Making these careers more accessible to the average/lower income earning population would guarantee that staff shortage would no longer be an issue. It is a dream that seems only attainable for wealthy class citizens.

We see the problem, would be willing to aid in fixing the problem, but the government is more interested in making money than finding solutions and improving its services to the classes below the highest.

More officers on the field at night would imply no longer locking us up past a certain time. More medical staff would mean we could gather with our families while being able to rely on our medical care if we get struck with the virus.

Instead, the government explains the staff shortage, by stating that many have departed on sick leave due to the current situation. However, if a plethora of the remaining population would at least have access to these employments, the absent staff could temporarily be replaced and the system, as we know it, would not further crumble.

It took shortages for the wealthy class to realize they cannot run this planet alone. The diploma on the wall will be glorious to look at from the essential worker’s comfortable sofa when they acknowledge that our numbers will always surpass their numbers.

Ridding anxiety using the traffic light technique

The smudge of a thought turns to the creation of envisioned outcomes. The fear of what might uncontrollably unfold then causes uncomfortable physical signs to form. Sweat accumulates in the pits and the palms. Tips tremble and cannot be kept steady. What started as anticipation in the mind, transcended to the body; preparing for the worst.

From decades of repetitive training, the nervous system learns to function through a circuitry process. Each previous shocking event, whether it went well or horribly bad, left us still standing. Our mind and body therefore automatically adopt the exact defence mechanism, through every difficult moment life tosses in our direction, because it worked time after time before.

It does what it knows!

It performs the way we taught it to!

The only way to derail the predestined circuit is by allowing our mind to not control our thoughts before the unknown outcome becomes known.

Whatever will be, will be!

All the shaking fingers and sweaty hands in the world cannot change the course of the universe’s mystical way of working!

Instead of wasting energy, on trying to forcefully bend the track, focus on breathing to beautifully navigate down the unfamiliar road ahead.

Our mind frantically places airbags all around our vehicle – ready to deploy – when, in reality, the path might only be for pedestrians.

Imagine a traffic light next time anxiety creeps. Close your eyes and see nothing else. Train your mind to see only the glowing red light. The outcome will slowly unfold the way it was intended, and the light will eventually turn to green in your mind. Sit with the red light; focusing solely on its bright glow.

This repeated technique will stop all other anxiety-causing thoughts from forming, and will therefore spare you from the psychological and physical damage repeated anxiety is responsible for.

It amounts to the same result as meditation. But, for some of us, switching from a state of anxiety to a feeling of peace is really quite difficult; perhaps nearly impossible.

You do not need to envision a peaceful buddha, smell invisible lavender, or have zero thoughts, you simply need to not overthink or overreact while the light is still red. Only the universe possesses the mighty power to change the colour of the traffic light. You must trust it.

Things will fall into place alone!

Little Legs

Little legs leaping mountain peaks; barefoot through the treacherous burs and the thorns. Sheltering hurt deeply in the core of her stubborn shell; though falsely displaying a stunning assembly of well-striken armour adorned. The tested strength, in her feet, left her beat with defeat; as her best was quite shy to be good. But, mysterious wind generously gusted; gently shovelling ashes from her barely pounding crippled heart. The surface of the soil lifted her numb body, the roots beneath the dirt spoke soft whispers to her racing mind, the blow pierced through her soul, as she radiantly rose from the entangling ground. Unimaginable sense of what discretely lies past upcoming curves, chasing an unknowningly crooked journey, choosing this course. Secretely refusing to rather remain on the road where the pavement practically perforated her previous presence. Absent knowledge of where her little legs will land her, but clearly steering her soles from the soil they travelled to take her before. The gust of the blow is now wind in her hair, and she’ll run till she flies in thin air.

Dancing Darkness

Unapparent curves adumbrate her acicular, yet divine, goddess-like figure, as she baringly graces the sturdy pole with her wobbling confidence. The devil slitheringly dares her to dance; as the angel agonizingly deplores her rehearsed steps. She breaks the unbroken and smashes the fixed, as the beat repeats every hellish night and the lights of shame beam down on her darkness; confiscating her glory and pride. An endless list of wrong turns drastically surpasses her lengthy 5-inch weapons, yet she stays and sways her dignity away. The hollers and screams, to her on-scene display, release a sense of feeling craved. Her misperceived sensation of being viewed as undesirable, inadequate, and insufficient drifts from her core as she strattles the floor. Clandestinely though, she hopes for the ground to collapse beneath her to salvage the scraps of her hidden purity. Another dance, a few additional bills, before she perhaps renounces to the only her she has ever truly been expected to be. Entirely lost, in her magnetic performance, her hair strands veil her breasts like a curtain hiding the pain in her liberated chest. Tomorrow, she will flutter like an angel, but tonight she dances as the devil claims her soul.

You Come First!

Blame not yourself for another's destruction when you reclaimed yourself from being destroyed. Their response to having reached your limit belongs to them.
Be true to your you when accepting or refusing situations not meant to intrude your life. Stand for your beliefs, have your morals and values announced, heard, and respected.

Select who comes in and who must go, who stays far and who stays close. Never place yourself aside or disregard your existence. Do not cave-in when you must show resilience.

See, the choices made in your past are easier to forgive once you accept that you did not make mistakes; you were simply setting a limit for yourself with every tough decision you were faced with at that time when you decided enough was enough.

Let them gaze at the lines of your back and critique every action, word, or gesture they forced you to pose or pronounce. Their opinion concerning their stepping out of bounds truly does not count.

Miraculous Bond

Reposing, savouring each echoing tick of the clock's tock.
Showering her suffering child with endless cuddles.
Reflecting, reminiscing all aching events from the wretched past.
Smiling her worries away with a loving embrace.
Returning, sharing many meaningful moments at last.
Shifting her focus on matters that matter.
Reaching, rubbing delicate skin with a healing touch.
Staring at her precious baby with admiration. 
Reuniting, holding on tightly to a love withstanding time.
Storing the presented miracle in her heart's chest.
  

Fierce Fired Flames

Remarkably overcoming each disaster. Blurring her final destination -  the trickery of life modifies her predestined path.

Firmly clutching her indestructible glorious crown. Solidly strapping her overly experienced boots. Tightfully-clenching her strong iron fists. 

Winking whispers at her reflection. Powerful voice released from a statuesque look that could certainly kill.

 Weighted low-sunken shoulders. Beaten chin; pointing to the mischevious sky. Widely-spread flaps of armour. Endangered eagle that flies. 

Bullets draw blank. Sharp claws dig the plank. Tips of her delicate toes dip down; touching the water beneath. Steel skin turns to scales. Gills form as she breathes.

Fearlessly fierce, she battles each round; till her withering body gets tossed in the ground. Elements lose; every hurdle she hops. Scratching the bottom, she climbs to the top. Rungs of the ladder; like thorns to her feet. Fusing to metal, clenched jaw with her teeth.

Cup of Thoughts

As the warmth of her caffeine-filled start caresses the colour of her lips, the thoughts pour out from her feather-like tips.
As deeply-gathered memories surface to appear on blank mutated manmade birch, her voice releases from her uncontained words.
The rushing sensation, caused in her brain; similar to the sound of letters frantically throbbing from a prehistorically existing typewriter. The liquid turns cold, the pen uncontrolled. Jotting drips from her cup of overflowing ink, she chillingly discharges every drop that she thinks.

Single Bloom

Daintily, depositing lifeless seeds in the stubborn soil.
Kneeling, patting the earth with her seasoned hands;
As she invokes mother nature to commit.
Simple sprout requested;
Single vibrant colour;
Sole petal to bloom.
Daily, watering sprinkles of kindness on the selfless soil.
Praying, trusting the world with her reasoned heart;
As she conjures the universe to consign.
Reasonable sum demanded;
Respect extended in return;
Role fittingly fulfilled.
Delicately, withdrawing poisonous weeds from the settled soil.
Begging, searching the ground with her unreasoned thoughts;
As she provokes the sky to relegate.
Urgent matter required;
Understandable unanswered prayer;
Unwhole garden inside.

Warrior

Battalion below and armour adorned, the warrior tosses her shield. Her sword becomes drawn, as she storms down the hill, to save those that she loves in the field. The buried white flag is kept safe in the ground, as she pats down the earth all around. Underneath her sharp nails, on the curves of her cheeks, the tear-soiled dirt can be found. The echoing sound of her pain resonates in the wind, as her back becomes cribbled with blades. But she bounces right back for the ones she has lost and the loved ones she’s struggling to save.

Winding Road

Eclipsed by the full-grown trees, highlighted by the sunset shades in the sky, stood the start of her past. Layered bricks that formed her character; the creator of the creature that carries the baggage. The swing still shrieks in the shadows, as the weeping willow dances in the neighbouring meadow. Her footsteps creep to the ledge of the porch, as she skillfully balances her weight on the boards. Driving down through the winding road, foot on the pedal, her bags by the door. She leaves what is left in the past behind, with a road up ahead and herself to find.

Single Pringle

Choosing to remain single is a wonderful thing! It means you refuse to settle for comfort and your ability to be your best self does not depend on the person standing by your side. You feel whole and complete with yourself. I don’t think it matters whether or not the other is right for you or you are right for them. There is most definately a compatibility aspect though once the relationship intensifies in seriousness, but many of us are unable to foresee and foretell where the partnership will lead in its commencement. To definitively validate whether or not your person is the right fit, you must jump in, with both feet committed, and remove yourself if you feel you are sinking before you become submerged. A relationship should not be considered a flotation device, by any means, and you can’t stay aboard grappling onto a sensitive twig that might snap at the slightest ripple. If you feel like you’re chaotically paddling, then you might as well swim to settle on shore. Folks who are single are searching for precious shells in the sand, they do not feel obligated to swim with the predatory sharks in the sea. I have the utmost respect for these selectively driven people.

Dear Young You:

Crowded wrinkles, shriveled hands, an unsteady bone-sculpted mould. The depth in her eyes, a depiction of time, tracing a deep travelled road. 

She stares at her image, the damage and folds, from mistakes that her younger self made. Boldness strikes her blunt knuckles, crookedness forms, as the strength of her fist starts to fade. 

Recollection of life, selective adieu, far from a fairy-tale truth. But the fable of lies and perspective advice were apparently not self-induced.

 Her level of care, and lowered concern, shakes like a rattle of proof, that the stuff in her past was nothing but shit that her younger self feared to get through.

Her skin now aglow and the wrinkles absorbed the one from her vision in mind. As her character knows the actress within is a fictive description of time.

Imperfect

I don’t always have the right answers. I’m uncertain which way I should turn. I pace and I stumble, like others, through failure I grow and I learn.

Many things I do wish I did different, some things are too gone to be fixed. But, the wrong things I did and the wrong turns I took are the lessons thrown into the mix.

I try to give off some perfection, I developed with no in-between. My thoughts trick me into thinking that I’m best or the worst at extremes.

Speaking of this is so hard, since it totally crumbles my guard.

The fear of the fail, failing to prevail, intensifies with the thought of others critiquing my wrongs.

I often feel judged or inadequate. So, I push every limit, by refusing to quit, even if I have already lost.

Worried of being a zero, is the only thing I have figured out. Harsh reality is: I am flooded by faults and by doubt.

Mother’s Love

I remember your butterfly flinches and your turning around as I slept with a body pillow to hug and protect my body; temporarily serving as your home. Your subtle internal responses to the sound of my voice, and the way you followed the comfort of my hand.

I remember the excruciating pain. But the instant you cried, and I held your febrile body, wrapped in a warm blankie, the joyful tears trickled down as the stitches of the open nest were being sown.

I remember your first bath, your first drive home, the first time your precious eyes squinted to get a glimpse of me.

I would lay on my back, your ear flattened to my chest, and would sing songs as I gratefully observed the miracle before me in awe.

Your flawless complexion, your tiny brown eyes, and every other inch of you was pieced and delivered to perfection. The twitching smiles, you silently shared, as your pleasant dreams made you giggle.

In that very identical moment, I vowed to always be there for you; despite the struggles ahead.

Hold on to my hand as you clinged to my finger with all of your might.

A mother’s love it is granted, unconditional too. I will always accept you through all that you do.

Tickled Thumb

He slipped her heart into his denim pocket, brushing her bangs from her purely crafted beauty. He tickled her thumb, with the stroke of his presence; allowing a sense of relief and security to encompass her body. 
He offered his love, with the warmth of his soul. She was broken apart, but he saw her as whole. In great disbelief, as he sat there and stared, at the elegant woman before him. 
Her skin, the symbol of love. Her curves, the crush of his lust. The dimple he desperately seeks, behind tear-covered cheeks, resurfaces as he smothers her with hope.
He gazes down slightly, at her palm, in his hands; caressing her sorrow.

Rocky Lotus

Fragility, stuck in cement, she is a vase of flowers underneath the bling and the tats. She's a sprinkle of bad and a whole lotta sass. The stubble she wears, on the sides of her crown, removing her hair as it falls to the ground. She's a lotus of rocks, a petal of stone, in a garden of sticks she's a fountain of bones. The scars on her face are like veins from a stem that's been plucked from the field and tucked into cement. 
 

Acrylic Pores

Dripping dabs of her aura and revealing secrets as her colours splash across the plain canvas. The thickened paint pours from her refined pores like acrylic wine seeping from her chest. The burning brush beats to the rumbling crash of her emotions as she covers the edges and corners of her story portrayed. The paint leaks from her pastel fingers as it colours her oily cheeks with a hint of a smile. Her tale dissipated from her fragile core, leaning strong against the sturdy wall for all to admire the fire released from her flames.